


The Mad House

by DoctorJohnHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Love Triangles, M/M, Madness, Mid-life Crisis, Reincarnation, Sherlock Fluff, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, keepjohnlockalivecompetition, never ending loop, sherlocksmolmescompetition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorJohnHolmes/pseuds/DoctorJohnHolmes
Summary: The house sat alone for centuries, though it was never truly empty. Lost throughout the years, lost throughout the timelines, are the permanent residents. John Watson had no idea that his life meant anything more than settling down into a suburban lifestyle, though when destiny arrives at his door in the form of a deed he has no choice but to embark on a mission to understand his past and his future. With the help of Sherlock Holmes, he finds himself lost in the meaning of existence and lost with the concept of immortality. Though along with a firm grasping of his life before comes a certain madness, comes a certain love, that he had not anticipated before.





	1. It's Never Just A House

The deed to the house came by post to John's work address, though he had never gotten any personal mail through that mailbox before. It arrived in a mysterious parcel, appearing in his mailbox even though he hadn't been expecting anything. John took the envelope back to his office during his lunch break, when all of the kids were off in their respective cafes or restaurants, taking time away from their studies to enjoy a sandwich with their friends. Well, he didn't have anything too fantastic for lunch and so was not missing anything as he took a pair of scissors and cut through the top of the thick paper envelope. It was addressed to him in a very sloppy hand, written in pen as if in a hurry, and there was a stamp printed along the top corner bearing the Town Hall's return address. At first, John thought it might be calling him for jury duty, or perhaps it was a parking ticket he had neglected throughout the years. However, when he opened the package out fell an envelope, and inside was the most peculiar document he had ever seen. It was handwritten on an ancient piece of yellowing paper, so frail it looked almost as if it would fall apart the moment he set his fingers on it. Yet with further examination, he saw it had a strange address printed upon it, of a house most likely, and his name scrawled in very neat calligraphy at the bottom. John studied it for a moment, deciding that if he was reading this correctly, then this was a deed, an inheritance of sorts. This address must now belong to him, through some accidental chain of family heritage. John examined the deed once more; just to be sure that he wasn't misreading anything and tried to determine the age of the document. It looked ancient, truly ancient. Yet there was his name, in the same old ink as the rest of the writing, possibly a grandfather of his then, someone with the same name? John didn't remember any family history behind his name, and so of course this deed couldn't mean him. And so it must have been someone way back in the history of his lineage, someone who had owned a house...John didn't let himself get too excited, of course. Just because there was an address didn't mean it was anything glamorous. Knowing his ancestors it was probably a rundown old tool shed, which they had given a mailbox and an address just for a laugh. John really wasn't proud of his heritage, as he had left his family behind in America to start a new and more distinguished life for himself in England. If his ancient ancestors proved to be anything like his immediate family, well he knew not to expect much from this strange inheritance. Besides, any structure with a deed this old ought to be the same age, if not older. And if this deed was just falling into his hands now, who knows how long the building had been sitting in the elements, unowned, and rotting back into its framework? Nevertheless, John decided he ought to show it off to the only person he knew would tolerate his rantings.His coworker and fellow professor Greg Lestrade had an office just down the hall, as John's office in the biology wing was placed in such juxtaposition with the criminal science wing that it was impossible for the two of them not to befriend each other over the years. Then again, when you walk past someone in the hallway enough times, eventually you have to say hello, followed eventually by a complement of a tie, or a new pair of glasses. And then came the conversation, presumably...Oh, who knows how they got to be acquainted? One day John was the new professor on the block, and the next he had a best friend, right down the hall within yelling distance. Yet today John decided not to yell, as those older professors who have more wrinkles than PHD's usually don't like noise during their lunch hours, especially when it was coming out of John's office. Despite his being here for a year and a half, he was still the newest professor in this hallway, and therefore was automatically the one who got blamed for disturbing the peace. It wasn't usually a fair accusation, considering Greg was almost always the most vocal of the two of them, while John kept his own voice to a reasonable and professional volume. And so, John minded his footsteps as he walked down the old wooden halls of the university, his feet scuffing against the old red carpet that still clung attractively to the wooden floors. And yet, along with the age of the building there also came almost no discretion at all. Whenever someone decided to move about through the hallways there was always that telltale squeak of the ancient floorboards, and that very squeak must have been why Greg knew to swivel his chair around to face the door before John was able to announce himself.  
"Ah, Professor Watson," Greg said in his most nauseatingly formal voice, folding his hands politely on the table in front of him and sitting up as straight as he could manage. "What is it that I can do for you today?" John just scowled, holding the deed a bit gentler between his two fingers and giving his friend a little glare.   
"Well, Professor Lestrade, you can very politely act your age." John suggested with a sarcastic sneer. Immediately Greg's posture dropped, and he leaned back in his chair and spun around once, as if to fully satisfy John's request.   
"In all honesty, I've only been told to act my age when I'm immature. Never has anyone complained that I'm being too mature." Greg pointed out with a wagging finger, all the while he was still completing his second turn in his swivel chair and therefore had his back facing John. "Not until now." John corrected, kicking the door shut and wincing when it made a loud bang. "Well, there you go. Now you'll get to witness the real mature folks, as they come in here with their daily noise complaints." Greg groaned, finally ceasing his spinning by planting his feet solidly on the floor and pulling himself up to the table, as if to further investigate the paper John had just laid down on top of the piles of assignments that littered the man's desk.  
"What have we here?" Greg asked, pawing at the paper before John winced, moving to pull it away before Greg faltered and lifted his hands in surrender.   
"Gentle, Greg, gentle. That thing's ancient." John warned. Greg sighed heavily, yet as per John's instructions, he moved carefully, and picked up the deed with uncharacteristically delicate fingers.   
"Deed to a house?" Greg presumed.   
"Ya, I got it in the mail this morning." John agreed. Greg nodded in approval, setting the paper back down on the desk and rearranging himself once more in his chair.   
"Isn't that fancy? A whole new house- you could have two families then! One of them would have to know, of course, but you can just tell the other that you're going on a holiday and scamper on to your new wife, in your new house, whenever you get bored of the first." Greg suggested with a grin.   
"I won't get bored of the first, Greg. I know a bachelor like you won't understand what it's like to be in love, but I can assure you it doesn't just end." John taunted.   
"Not if you do it right. But you won't know that until you're at least a year in, would you? Just you wait, John, soon all those pretty girls will look very tempting." Greg teased. John groaned, shaking his head and wondering to himself why he even thought telling Greg would be worth his time. He ought to have known that Greg would use the house to make fun of his new wedding ring. It had only been a couple of months since he had gotten married to Mary Morstan, and yet those months had still managed to be filled with love and commitment. The couple just had their first child together, a little newborn named Rosie, a beautiful baby with little wisps of blonde hair and the most adorable toothless smile. Now of course, this was the most delightful thing to ever happen to John, at least in his conscious recollection, all the while Greg constantly reminded him that a child was a weight, and a wife was the shackle. That man always did like to make fun of John for settling down, probably in his own denial of the miserable state of bachelor he had found himself in. Then again, Greg was too much of a playboy to settle down. He never got very far with his girlfriends, usually because he got bored of them within a couple of weeks. And because of that, it simply wasn't Greg's place to call John's love life a failure.   
"While completely ignoring what you just said, what do you think I should do with it?" John asked with a little frown.   
"The house?" Greg clarified, rolling his hand over his wrist a couple of times in quiet pondering. "Ya, the house, the deed...I mean where do I go from here?" John agreed with a tried glance, wondering just how much maintenance this house was going to need, if it even was his own house at all! There was still some doubt in his mind about the truthfulness behind the deed, as if it was just some practical joke two hundred years in the making.   
"Well, you own the place now, don't you? I suppose you go there, then. Go check it out, see if it's worth your time. If not, try to sell it. Although, I suggest flipping it, in all honesty. These days house flipping is where all the money is. If it's a rundown shack then abandon it, but if not, try to make some money." Greg suggested with a grin.   
"My only concern is that this house isn't supposed to be mine. Just look at the name! That ink seems to be older than I am! It certainly couldn't be left to me." John insisted with a small shake of his head.   
"Your name's not the only one on here, mate. See that?" Greg pointed to what appeared to be a bit of paint, peeling from underneath the ink that printed John's name. It was almost like some ancient form of white out. "It looks like you were added afterwards. So, maybe someone changed the names on the deed, from your father's name to yours, or whoever originally owned the house."   
"No, we never had a house, especially not in England!" John insisted.   
"Well, maybe your ancestors were English. Just because you're from America doesn't mean you all originated there. I mean, when you think about it, all Americans were English at one point." Greg pointed out with a smart little smirk. John narrowed his eyes at him, not entirely sure if that was a valid argument or not.   
"Ya, but that still doesn't mean their property was to be passed down. If this was some ancient seventeenth century house, you'd think I'd have known about it before. You'd think they'd make a bigger deal about it." John said with a sigh of defeat.   
"Are you complaining? I feel like you're complaining. Got a nice big house to your name now, and you're whining that it doesn't make any sense. Why don't you just go with it?" Greg suggested insistently, glaring at John as it to forcefully make him enjoy the special little surprises life had in store for them.   
"I like things that make sense, Greg. You know that." John groaned. "And this deed seems to be as much an enigma to me as you are."   
"Oh man, such extremes!" Greg yelled with a laugh, to which John apprehensively shushed him, turning his eyes towards the closed door and listening hard for any approaching, angry footsteps.   
"I'll go down to Town Hall tonight, after class. I'll just make sure everything is as it should be." John decided with a sigh. Greg gave a great groan of disapproval, yet then again that was all he could do, as he knew any verbal protest would be a waste of both of their times. Once John's heart was set on doing the right thing there was no going back. Greg's rebellious nature was not enough to contaminate John, and there was no way he was going to collect this deed without first making sure it was intentionally left to him. Besides, if there really was another John Watson from his father's side, it still didn't make sense that they would choose to pass something as important as a house to him. Historically, John had done nothing to that family except disgrace them, as his father had said right before he left. Certainly, he wouldn't get any presents from the Watsons except an envelope full of ricin. And so, Greg could never understand not only that this deed might be misplaced, but also the idea that anything from the Watsons must not be a gift at all. Surely if the house was intentionally passed to him it was because there was something wrong with it, and so it would be more of a burden than a gift. It was merely some more family baggage that he would have to carry atop his already aching shoulders. An old deteriorating shack that no one wanted to deal with anymore, come into his possession because its original owners had gotten lazy. Of course it would be passed down to him. 

"Well at least it's not far." Mary commented as she looked out the window from the backseat, watching as the trees went by in blurs as they sped through the desolate English countryside. It was the early winter, in which the air was crisp and all the trees were left barren from having lost their leaves in the autumn, blowing about in the wind with their naked bark providing a dull gray compliment to the cloudy sky looming ahead.  
"Oh yes, it's a short distance away from town. Wonderful for a morning commute." Mrs. Hudson, from the Town Hall, agreed quickly. She was a gentle old woman, getting up there in years yet discreetly enough that no one could really guess her age. If John had to guess, he'd suppose somewhere around sixty, however the woman kept herself in such a pleasant state that it was all just speculation. She was the secretary behind the desk at the Town Hall, and just as soon as John had come asking about the deed she had insisted that she be the one to take he and his wife for their first impression of the house. Of course, John hadn't asked for a personal escort, though as soon as the woman heard that John was interested in the house, she seemed positively overjoyed to go see it up close. She was the one with the key, after all, and she claimed that she passed the driveway every day on her way to work, and always wanted to see what waited at the end. She claimed that there were lures surrounding the house, old fairy tales the children had made up to go along with the ominous building which sat alone in the woods. She never clarified as to what these stories entailed, though John could only assume the house would come along with a handful of ghost stories due to its ancient history. Though the existence of these stories John allowed himself to hope as to what sort of structure they were dealing with, for while there was a chance it was a nasty old shed, ghost stories always alluded to something more massive. Possibly John had inherited something more impressive than he realized?  
"How big did you say it was?" John wondered hopefully, looking for something to expect. Mrs. Hudson just gave a mysterious little chuckle, turning down an old road which was hardly paved, not seeming to mind the tires as she drove right through all of the potholes and cracks that had dug themselves into the dirt over years of neglect. The car jolted dangerously, causing John to reach up and grab the roof for some added support.   
"I didn't." she sang a bit tauntingly. John sighed heavily, leaning up against the window and trying to see any defining landmarks. A mailbox may have been welcomed, or perhaps an aging iron gate to announce the mansion that could be looming behind the trees. These woods gave the impression that they were in the middle of nowhere, yet still the commute had not been nearly as long as his morning drive. And so, it was presumably closer to the university than was his current home. This little realization gave him yet another spark of hope, for he dared imagine a future where this was his new home. Perhaps he could flip it into something livable, and then stay himself? Make a home out of it, rather than stay cooped up in their little old house in the middle of the sprawl.  
"What condition is it in, can you tell us that?" Mary wondered apprehensively, clutching the seat as the car jumped through yet another ungodly pothole. Of course, if the road was any indicator of the house's shape, well then certainly it was going to be a disaster.  
"Oh I'm not sure; I can't speak for the inside. But the outside...well with a little bit of paint I suppose it can become as good as new! I'm surprised, actually, that the roof hasn't caved yet. You'd think a house like that, abandoned for so many years, would show more signs of weathering. Then again, it's always been said to be an old, powerful thing. I told you about the ghost stories, yes?" Mrs. Hudson clarified excitedly, as if she really wanted to share her local knowledge. However, despite her enthusiasm, her audience had suddenly become distracted.  
"Is that it?" Mary interrupted eagerly, suddenly ignoring the potholes as she craned her neck as close to the windshield as she could get, pointing excitedly at the looming shape of a house through the trees and shadows.  
"Yes, I think it is." Mrs. Hudson agreed, nodding as she finally turned down an old dirt path, just a mere patch in the grass that must have been a driveway when this house had visitors. It was odd...in fact, it was more than odd when John first saw the house. He was amazed, of course he was amazed! It was a fantastic structure, looming in the distance like one of those ancient Victorian houses, that sort which was very obviously just an excuse to show off how much money the original owners possessed. Back in the old times they couldn't waste their money on electronics or music, and so all of their wasted inheritance was put into infrastructure and architecture, and thus producing such a house which stood before him today. The house was breathtaking, or at least John felt as though he should've been breathless. He figured that he should've been taken aback, amazed even, at what sort of house he had inherited. And yet, for whatever reason, he wasn't surprised. For whatever reason a small part of him knew this was coming, a part of his brain that hadn't come to life until now. John looked upon the house and immediately recognized it, from some place or another, and he knew exactly what to expect as they drew nearer. The tall, looming windows coupled with the cement stairway leading up to the ancient oak door, he felt as though he had seen this all once before! There was a porch stretching all around the house, with a greenhouse off to the left, overcome now with weeds and vines, all sorts of plants which grew in once it had been left unkempt for so long. And there was a pond, something small yet impressive all the same, with a little dock rotting down into the mud. The place was indeed a little rundown, as the white paint was peeling down in long steady strips, and some windows had been replaced with boards, presumably from when it had been officially condemned. Yet all together the wood seemed to be intact, the structure didn't look flimsy. In fact, it looked as tall and proud as it must have when it had first been built. And yet that had to have been hundreds of years ago, a hundred years of living, a hundred years of rotting- and still here the house stood, tall and proud. As if it had been waiting for someone to come and salvage it before long.  
"Oh my God." Mary murmured, nearly falling out of the car as she became encaptured in her amazement and planting her heels in awe in the scattered gravel. "That's our...that's our house! John do you see this!" she yelled, taking her eyes off of the house for just a moment so that she could run and pull John's car door open in eagerness. She tried to usher him out, though John also felt rather paralyzed, and for a moment had preferred the safety of the car.  
"Yes, yes, honey. I'm not blind." John reminded her, stepping out into the driveway and feeling something similar to excitement...or perhaps not. He felt something drawing him forward, yet with further consideration he couldn't call it excitement. There was a tugging within his stomach, one which reminded him more of reluctance. However it was coupled with a straining of his heart, one which was attempting to pull him closer to the doors where they stood closed and locked. The two feelings together, well it couldn't have been excitement. Perhaps purpose was a better word. Or rather Fate. He stared at the house and he knew it to be awfully familiar, even though he had never been here in person. Perhaps he seen this house before, maybe in life, maybe in a dream. This house, the way it loomed upwards with eyes like windows, staring down upon him with that glint of recognition...John knew in the depths of his heart that he had returned. Returned to what, he had no idea, but as he stepped towards the house he was certain that he had been here before.   
"It's beautiful, my God it's absolutely breathtaking!" Mary exclaimed excitedly, jumping once more with enthusiasm and sliding around dangerously in the mud as she fell back down upon her feet.   
"Careful dear." Mrs. Hudson warned, walking carefully around the car as she unearthed a gigantic skeleton key from her bag. "Isn't it lovely? Oh, so wonderful to know it has such nice owners!"  
"And you're quite sure this is mine? I mean, legally, this is mine?" John clarified.  
"Oh don't ask now, she might say no!" Mary whined, tugging on her husband's arm as if to pull him closer to the house.  
"It's all yours, dear. There's not another John Watson who lives close, in fact there's hardly another John Watson in England. Not one that I could find, at least. That name must be yours." Mrs. Hudson assured, stepping up onto the porch and waving for the two of them to come closer. The pair had stopped in the driveway, clinging to each other yet doing nothing more than staring up at the house from afar. For whatever reason, John didn't want to go just yet. For whatever reason he knew that the first step he took onto that porch, the first time his foot hit those wooden stairs, he could never leave. Yes, he might be able to walk away and drive home with his wife, though he felt as if a part of him would be inside those walls forever. For whatever reason John wanted nothing but to run, to run as fast as he could away from the house where it stretched up in the tree tops. There was a feeling deep within him, something he knew to be fear. He knew that things happened there, and that things would happen again. He felt it in his bones...that anxiousness. That breath that was being held in the house's walls, containing its excitement as its prey approached the door...yet he had no choice, did he? Surely, they would think him a coward if he didn't want to go closer, both his wife and Mrs. Hudson would laugh. Despite the feelings he had in his heart, well this really was just a house, wasn't it? Though after a moment's thought John simply looked up, shaking his head in apprehension, almost laughing at himself for being so foolish. It wasn't just a house. It was never just a house.


	2. Alone As You'll Never Be

**Entry One:** _I feel silly writing to myself. I have never kept a journal, yet then again I never had reason to. Never had I lived through anything worth documenting, never have I stumbled across a place that was so...purposeful I think is the word. There's a reason I'm here, I can feel it in my bones, and in the walls. I can feel that something's happening, something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. It was the storm that brought me here; the wind was too violent, shaking my carriage by the wheels. The driver insisted that we had to stop, that the horses were exhausted and he was soaked to the point of hypothermia. I couldn't do anything but agree. There was a light in the distance, the only light we could see for miles around, and so we headed over to the source. It was a house, a gigantic house, the most beautiful structure I had ever seen. I feel as though even if there hadn't been a storm, even if we had just been passing by, I would have had to stop. There was a drawing force from inside that building, something that was pulling me by my heart strings. There was a sort of urgency about it, and it would seem as though as soon as I knocked the house received that urgency straight away. The master of the house is a peculiar man, Victor Trevor. He stands easily six feet from the ground and his face is complimented by a swoop of beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. He seems to be richer than any man could ever hope to be, and he's sleek enough to be called beautiful. Mr. Trevor creeps around throughout the house, appearing at random intervals throughout my night as it to check in on me. You'd never hear him if not for that walking stick around the marble floors. Interesting fellow he is, but not nearly as interesting as the company he keeps. The whole house is empty save for the servants, myself, Mr. Trevor, and his friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Now that I think about it, they may not be friends at all. Sherlock Holmes does nothing but scowl, and he hardly eats anything; he sits without a word at the dinner table. Yet our dinner was cut oddly short just as soon as Sherlock set his eyes on my host with something of a teasing stare. They had urgent business, apparently, for as soon as Sherlock's eyes fell upon Victor, they abandoned me. I spent most of my dinner alone, wondering what pressing business had drawn the hosts so quickly from the table. Such odd company they are, and yet I find it increasingly difficult to leave them. It feels impossible to leave this house after I had already settled in. In fact I had found this old journal while searching for a piece of parchment with which to write to Harriet, and warn her that I will be a couple days late to my visit. I'd like to say that she'd understand, but at the moment I don't understand myself. All I know is that I am sitting here on this bed, sitting in utter silence, with what meager possessions I have already hung in the closets, and stuffed in the drawers. I made myself at home in this house, and I hadn't even been offered to stay. Mr. Trevor told me, all the while, that I can stay as long as I needed to. At first I took that as until the storm blew over, yet now I understand that there was more to it than that. I think he knows the appeal of his house, the feeling it gives you that you can never leave. It's interesting, really, just how much I need to stay. What a happy occurrence that storm was, even if it had quieted down just as soon as I got settled. I'm not sure if it's even raining now.   
__John Watson_

It wasn't natural. Well that was at least John's impression upon the state of the house...the spotless state of things since they had been left how many years ago. The more he sifted through what should've been the ruins, the more he found that the house was just as structurally sound as its last owners had left it. Well of course there was the dust; all old things have dust, coupled of with white sheets that were still perfectly pristine, hanging over all the lumps of furniture that sat about the house in their original places. It looked so perfect, so perfect that he honestly couldn't tell why anyone would leave it in such a state. He could only guess to who had done all the cleaning up, maybe the last owners in their flight, or rather someone who had come only after the rest of the world realized the house was empty. Yet how did it stay so well preserved? How was it that almost all of the house was in its original state, save for the occasional mouse, or dust pile? It seemed almost too good to be true, which was something John knew a lot about these days. Disappointments were only too prevalent in his life, and so he had trained himself not to trust things that seem so perfect. Family members who should be loyal, or friends who seemed to never fail. And houses...houses that were as old as his oldest ancestor, yet still in the perfect living condition today. John was no expert on architecture, or carpentry, but he had a keen knack for knowing that there was something off. And this house, well it fared very well on the scale of peculiarity. There was something quite wrong with it, even if everything did seem perfectly in order. When they had first stepped inside, John had asked Mrs. Hudson who was taking care of the place. She claimed that no one had been in here since it had been last shut down (the cause of which she seemed to deliberately avoid), and that the key had been sitting in Town Hall, with the structure condemned for the last century. It was odd, then, just how perfect the house still was. Just how impressive its stature could be. The inside was every bit as magnificent as the outside, for the house was decorated in the late Victorian fashion, with all the money that had been put into it still evident in the golden trim, and the marble statues hidden in alcoves in the walls, or the oil paintings that hung just about everywhere. Even the ceiling was painted, when you craned your neck in the foyer and in the dining room, past the chandeliers you could just make out scenes of men on the ceiling. John wasn't entirely sure what the murals depicted, as he was so far up, all he knew was that it was drawn like an old Renascence painting, like those which depicted Bible stories. There were so many soft colors, coupled then with the color of human skin. Well of course it had been playing on his mind for as long as he could remember, ever since that deed fell into his hands he had been asking himself just what it meant, what it was all for. It had only been a day since he took his first tour, yet now he found himself returned, with that old key in his hands, wandering aimlessly around these halls as if he knew them by heart. As if he belonged here, to a certain extent, even if there was no one left to welcome him home. John wandered through the foyer, staring up at the golden chandelier, dark for ages now, which hung above his head on a sturdy cord. He had to wonder how such a thing could stay up there for so long, how the roof could even support so much weight for ages. The magnificent staircase curled before him, the stone stairs draped in red velvet, and the numerous hallways stretching into the larger rooms, such as the dining room and ballroom. John moved then to the statues, those that had been covered in spider's webs from the house's newest occupants. Insects and rodents seemed to be prevalent, yet their damage could not be seen. Their presence was obvious, yet it was interesting, really, that the creatures had not left more of a mark. John had seen the damage that rats could do, in his old basement they used to chew through cushions and cardboard boxes in a single night! How the furniture could be completely unscathed then, seemed to be a mystery he could not solve. It was as if the house had its own life force, had its own regeneration, and it was keeping the creatures loyal to it in exchange for refuge. John sighed, starting up the magnificent staircase, draped in velvet carpet that showed no sign of age. It was so...well it was so wrong! How was there not water damage, or mouse poop, or even a single loose thread! John walked up the stairway now with a little bit more determination, clenching his jaw and holding fast to his flashlight. While there was still enough light to see by coming in through the window, he was still armed with such a thing just in case he found anything he needed to explore with artificial light, such as a deep wardrobe, or under a bed. He knew there were treasures hidden about here, the house itself was so rich and old and expensive, certainly its occupants had a secret stash of money, or gold? John had gone through the whole house before, yet that was when he was accompanied. Mrs. Hudson and Mary had been at his side, deterring his sense of adventure, and his sense of belonging. He knew that he couldn't wander aimlessly while they were at his heels, he knew that he couldn't stray towards the places that beckoned him the most, he couldn't meander down the hallway, down a path that had supported his feet before. Oh why did it feel as though he had already been here before, long before? Before that key ever found its way into his hands, before he had proper ownership of this house? Well perhaps this house really was a family heirloom, and he had been here with his parents when he was still small. Maybe they had taken him to see the house, with their own key? His grandparents had died when he was very young, maybe they had taken him to the house before they passed, and gave the house to his father who wanted nothing to do with it? Yet still, that would only allot for about thirty years, and Mrs. Hudson said the house had been empty for a century! Condemned, even though it showed no signs of withering. And besides, John's family wasn't even English. He was American, and he was quite sure he's never crossed the ocean before. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and deciding that it was best not to ponder this house's history, or its ghost stories. It was unnerving enough as it was, simply being alone in the middle of the woods, with curtains drawn over the windows to create its own artificial darkness. John found himself standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, looking in and for a slight moment, just a tiny millisecond of temptation, he felt as though he was perfectly allowed to walk in and flop on the bed. He felt his heart tug forward, while his feet stayed back, and for a moment he asked himself why he refrained. Something in the very back of his mind, something in the crevices of his unconsciousness, told him that there was nothing to be afraid of. That this was his room, after all. But it wasn't, John hadn't been in this room before. He had passed it with Mrs. Hudson once, yet he hadn't walked inside. He had done nothing to mark it as his own. It was a simple room, not nearly as extravagant as the others that he had toured in this delightful mansion. It didn't have half as many oil paintings, or statues, or even a hint of golden trim. Yet it was beautiful in its own simplicity, with a large bed draped in scarlet, golden hangings falling around still in their original state, hanging loosely as if they had just been sewed. There were cabinets strewn about, dressers and wardrobes against the walls, with a small writing desk that still had a couple of leafs of paper on top of it. There was a quill on the desk, yet when John approached it he found that the ink had long since dried, and there were no words to be seen. He wished for the slightest sign of a previous occupant, any sort of journal or photograph that might help him solve this house's mysteries. It was odd, really. For in this house he felt there was a lingering presence. Silence had taken over long before, not a foot had stepped in these walls for years and years...yet still he felt as though he was not alone. There were others, somewhere, whether they be in the walls, or in the beds, or in the portraits which hung on the walls. Their life force was inside of this house, somewhere imbedded into the woodwork. They were here now, watching him...John took a deep breath, turning his attention away from the desk for the slightest moment, looking towards the door yet catching a glimpse of the bed in his peripheral vision. Catching a slight of a figure, lying on top of the blankets with a grin on his face, on his beautiful face. John let out a scream, one which would have been very embarrassing had he been accompanied by his wife. Yet it was an appropriate scream, for what he thought he had just seen. He fell back into the wardrobe's doors, in an attempt to get as far from the bed and its new occupant as he could...yet when he looked back he found that he was alone once more. The bed, had it hosted a man on top of it or not, was empty now. John steadied himself, trying to get his heartbeat under control as he got back to his feet, holding his flashlight tightly in his hand, clenching around it like a weapon, like a baton. And yet he felt increasingly silly, for the more he stared about the room the more he was sure that his eyes had just played a trick on him. He had been working himself up, getting scared and preoccupied on Mrs. Hudson's ghost stories, rather than the logical idea that this house was as empty as it had been when he first arrived. And yet, as his terrified brain decided to remind him, this house was indeed the sight of many murders. According to Mrs. Hudson (and of course, her information may not always be correct) there had been three deaths on the premises, or at least three violent deaths. She claimed that the ghosts of the dead men still haunt the halls, wandering about and tormenting those who lived here. That, she claimed, was the reason the house had sat empty for so long. The reason its real owners didn't want it anymore. Then again, John thought that was a terrible story, for it really didn't explain why the house was left to him. If he could do his best to guess, he'd say the house was left empty because they were waiting for a John Watson to happen in their town, so they could leave him with the burden of the ancient structure. Yet it wasn't necessarily a burden, was it? More of a gift. More of a living memory, rather than a house. He shouldn't be scared of a silly old house, no matter how many men died inside of it. People die all of the time, and if people decided that a violent death meant a ghost, well then the whole world would be haunted, wouldn't it? No, certainly there were no ghosts in this house. Certainly his eyes were just playing tricks on him, and putting figures where they weren't supposed to be. Placing men that he had never seen before, in the bed that used to be his own. Men that he recognized, that he surely recognized, even if he had never seen their face before in his life.

It was hard to concentrate when Rosie was screaming, yet John, as a new parent, was becoming much more accustomed to tuning her out. This wasn't what a parent was supposed to do, of course, for when a baby began to cry there was obviously something that needed attending to. Yet then again, Rosie never seemed to be satisfied! She has one issue one minute, and once that's solved she'll find another one just after he sat down! All she did was cry, and certainly tending to her every need just as soon as she let out her first wail was bad parenting. She should learn that she couldn't get everything she wanted just as soon as she decided it was necessary. That would be some sort of psychological imprinting, right? Something that she could grow up with, and turn her into a rotten, spoiled child. And even so, he was busy. And so she would just have to wait, or else he might start crying to get what he wanted to. It was impossible to get the face of that man out of his head; the one that John had seen sprawled out on the bed. If he was there or not, well every time John blinked he saw his face! And so it was a vision, if not an actual person. Something that was in his head, yet something he was familiar with all the same. Something he had never seen before, yet something his eyes could conjure up at will. And so here he sat, with a pencil in his hand, pressed up against a piece of printer paper as he tried to recreate the face that sat behind his eyelids, the face that wouldn't let him rest. Of course John was not an artist; in fact he may just be the farthest thing from it. All the same, however, he was determined to transcribe this face for someone else to see, to spit it up out of his head in an attempt to make it real. It was maddening to keep such a thing locked up, and to put it onto paper was to at least leave a part of it behind. Little by little, piece by piece, and line by line, John dragged that image of the ghost onto the paper, and finally had a man looking up at him once more. There was something missing, some sort of humanity, that wasn't present in his drawing as it had been in the man himself. There wasn't the shine of the pale skin; there wasn't the twinkle in the eyes. From what John had glanced of the ghost, the man had been lying on the bed in a helpless yet inviting position, he had been lying on his side and showing too much skin than John would have expected. He hadn't glanced down his body; he hadn't had the time before he screeched out his surprise. Yet John could remember just colors, colors that stretched down the length of the man's long body. There had been some black, and yet the predominant color had been the white skin, the skin that had been stretched across his face and therefore in his arms, and his exposed legs as well. And so John could only theorize that he had been wearing very little, if anything at all. And that was a little mystery in itself, why a man would by lying on the bed that John thought had been his own.


	3. Back When The House Was Alive

"John, do you not hear the baby!" came his wife's whining voice, appearing in the living room with curlers in her hair. It was sometime after nine, and certainly Mary was getting ready for bed when she was interrupted by the constant cry of that loud child.   
"Yes, I hear her. How could I not?" John groaned.   
"That's not the _point, _it was rhetorical!" Mary protested. "I'm asking you why you're not doing anything to stop it! Rosie's not my sole responsibility you know? This is our shared burden!"   
"And I'm doing my part! Come on, she's only been at it since..."   
"Since I went upstairs. Twenty minutes ago. You've been sitting there for like...twenty minutes, ignoring our child." Mary groaned, scooping the baby out of her little playpen and cradling her in her arms protectively. Rosie kept on crying, yet as Mary rocked her slowly she seemed to calm down, and steadily her wails turned instead into soft cooing.   
"Well I've been preoccupied." John protested. "Besides, that's all she wanted. Attention."   
"Which you're actually able to provide her with!" Mary defended, yet all the same once Rosie's crying died down, her anger seemed to fade away as well. She was just tired, John could see it in her heavy eyes, and she didn't have the energy to be mad at her husband right now. "Oh I'm sorry John, I'm just exhausted. I'm not in my right mind." Mary said finally, shaking her head and walking over to sit next to John on the couch. He had the slightest urge to hide his drawing from her, to tuck it away where she couldn't see it, however he was too late. Just as soon as he got the idea that Mary shouldn't see the man's face she made a little noise of confusion, craning her neck to get a better look at the face that was drawn.   
"Who's that?" she asked, with some curiosity and some interrogation. John sighed heavily, tucking the drawing away from Mary's eyes and shrugging his shoulders.   
"Not sure, really. Just a sketch." He lied quickly. Mary hummed, obviously not convinced, yet went back to bouncing the baby on her knee. Rosie was smiling now, dressed in her little striped pajamas.   
"I didn't know you liked to draw." Mary mumbled.   
"Well I don't, really. I just sort of had a piece of paper, and drew it on a whim. It's rubbish anyway, I'm a bad artist." John managed with a little chuckle.   
"Well, as with all things you can improve." Mary shrugged. "With drawing, and with fatherhood." John looked towards her immediately, so as to read her face for the emotions that went along with such a statement. Thankfully there was a teasing smile on her face, rather than the scowl he had been expecting, and so he knew with a breath of relief that she was joking. Well of course John could improve his fatherhood skills, yet all the same it really wasn't Mary's place to judge.   
"I suppose you're right, on both fronts." John agreed. "I've just been so distracted, by that house I...I don't know why it's got me so obsessed."   
"Well you're just interested in it, who wouldn't be? It's a great big house, beautiful thing really." Mary assured.   
"Ya I know, it's gorgeous. But what are we even going to do with it? What can we do with it? This is our home, we can't just move into that old thing. We can't rent it." John grumbled. "But now we're responsible for it! And it'll be on my conscience if I let it fall to dust."   
"Why can't we rent it? I'm sure there will be people out there who would love to rent a room! So they'd have to share a kitchen, but it's got enough space for all of those bedrooms to be filled with comfortable, happy occupants. I think that'll be a great way to get some more money." Mary offered excitedly. Yet the idea of renting that place out to strangers, who would leave their messes, and disrespect the house...well in fact the very idea of other people inside of the house left John nauseated. For whatever reason he felt defensive of the thing, as if the structure itself was one of his oldest, most exclusive friends. Certainly he couldn't invite people to live inside of it, no, the house wouldn't allow it either.   
"I don't think I could let myself do that either." John grumbled. "I feel like that house is...well it's mine. I don't like the idea of other people inside of it."   
"That's a strangely obsessive view point for you, John. You didn't even care about the house yesterday." Mary pointed out with a frown.   
"Well, it's not yesterday anymore, is it Mary?" John snapped, getting to his feet rather angrily and snatching up his drawing once more. Mary gave a great sigh, as if she really was sick of her husband's childishness in situations like these.   
"Oh come on John, don't make me out to be the bad guy. I'm just brainstorming." Mary defended, following John to her feet and clutching onto Rosie carefully. John nodded, pausing next to the stairwell and taking a deep breath, staring down into the eyes of this pencil creation, staring into the eyes and seeing real eyes staring back at him. Seeing this face but on a body, a body on a bed. His bed.   
"I know, I'm sorry. Like I said I'm just...I'm preoccupied." John admitted finally, and with that he ascended the stairs to his bedroom, hoping to leave the conversation of the house behind him. 

_John was standing barefoot in the velvet hallway, standing in the house when it was lit by oil, with music in the air. His feet were bare, yet the rest of him was properly clothed, and he was staring now at a door that had been shut long before, yet still hid its occupant inside. He stared at that door long and hard, in an attempt to make it open, yet he dare not knock. He knew that whoever was in there wouldn't appreciate his coming to say hello. He knew that whoever was in there wouldn't appreciate his friendliness. And yet, John knew that the man knew very well that his door was being watched. In fact, it was almost as if he was expecting it to be. There was a keyhole, a keyhole that might act as a window, if he was brave enough to use it. And yet staring at a door was one thing, staring at a man was another. Stooping down low, to stalk someone in their natural habitat, that was becoming a little bit invasive...a little bit obsessive. Yet John's stomach churned with temptation, his heart was pounding faster and faster in his chest, he knees were shaking and his palms suddenly became sweaty. He imagined what he might see when he looked in; he imagined what the man could be doing. What might he witness, if he allowed himself to invade that man's privacy? He might be sitting in his bed, or he might be standing next to the vanity. He might be fully dressed...he might be wearing nothing. He knew that John was here, did he not? He knew that he would be tempted, well of course he knew better than to wear his suit and coat. If he was expecting a spectator, he would be dressed in nothing but a robe, as he so often liked to be. He would be dressed only to keep people from blushing, yet to keep their hearts intrigued, and their eyes interested. To keep people curious, and guessing...and tempted. John took a step forward; he stepped forward with the intention of sinking to his knee...when a hand grabbed him from behind. A hand grasped his shoulder powerfully, and he heard something that was very close to a chuckle. A laugh that didn't sound amused, not in the slightest. _

_"Can I help you with something, Mr. Watson?" another man asked from behind, a stiff voice, a warning voice. _  
_"I'm just finding my room." John explained quickly. _  
_ "Mm, but looking for more than that, I imagine. Looking for him." the man taunted. _  
_ "I wasn't looking for anyone." John lied immediately. _  
_"Come in, then, Mr. Watson. I was going to say hello as well. Then again, he's been expecting me." the stranger pointed out with a grin. John's fists clenched, for whatever reason the very idea of this man, being able to walk in and out of that room with ease...it disgusted him. It enraged him, the sort of power his host had. _  
_ "He's been expecting me as well." John said with a snarl, although they both knew it not to be true. They both knew that door was shut to him. _  
_ "Well why don't you go to him?" the voice insisted, pushing John towards the door so that he clasped the handle. "Why don't you make yourself known. He'll have anyone, Mr. Watson. Certainly he'll have you too." With that John turned the handle, his heart taking over his body, suddenly he found that the door was swinging open, and he stared inside, stared to see that man once again, leaning up against the bedpost with his robe held around himself with only his clenched fist. The robe just barely clung to his shoulders, the fabric was rippling away from his pale skin, his dark curls hanging heavily overtop of his eyes, loose hairs rubbing against his exposed white neck. John had never felt passion this intense before, he had never felt temptation in the form it presented him with tonight. He had never wanted anyone before, never like this. And right as soon as the man's eyes met his, John knew that it might be over. Whatever this was, this game he had been playing with himself, the game in which he practiced ignorance, in an attempt to save himself from what these men might turn him into. Suddenly he felt himself changing, changing just as soon as he swallowed hard, and took a step forward._ John woke before the dream could end, his eyes flew open before that man's robe fell, and the darkness replaced the light of those lamps, back when the house had been alive. John shuttered, feeling that there was a cold sweat accumulating on his brow, yet he couldn't do anything to stop it. He didn't want it to stop, more accurately. He wanted to fall asleep and return to that dream, yet he knew that to be impossible. He knew that he couldn't relive it; he knew that he couldn't be there anymore. Things were different; he knew that for a fact. Things were not as they were, back when he was allowed to step closer. Now the house was playing tricks on him, and making him step back instead. 

** _Entry Two: _ ** _I'm staying longer. I don't know how much longer, but Victor was the one that offered, in the end. It felt almost wrong, as if I was taking advantage of his hospitality or something like that, but then again I was going to ask the question whether he brought it up or not. I don't know how much longer I will stay, until something incredible happens, I suppose. But until then, I suppose I will find something else to do. There is a gigantic library here, at my disposal, and a pond as well. I've got something of an interest in the little pond creatures, as my father had gotten me a book on them when I was very young. Perhaps I'll go out there and discover what lives under the grime. All the same, I think it's in my best interest to stay put. I think both Victor and Sherlock want me to stay, although Mr. Holmes has a very odd way of displaying his enthusiasm. He just sits at breakfast and smokes; drinking brandy at nine in the morning as if just being conscious is too much effort for him. He really is an odd fellow, yet I feel as though this house would be incomplete without him. Mr. Sherlock Holmes is half the reason I'm staying. I'm not sure why it would hurt to leave him, yet I know that I cannot bring myself to. I know that it would be very difficult to try to separate from these men, even before I got to know them properly. I feel as though the three of us have something in common, whether it be a trait or a fate. I just know that something brought us together, and that same something is telling us earnestly that we cannot separate so easily. I may be getting a touch dramatic, but how can one not, when writing with a feather quill?   
John Watson_

John sat over his desk in something of a fit, checking his clock every so often in hopes that the time had magically jumped four hours, and he could get in his car and answer that call that had been plaguing him for so long now. He knew of course that the house wasn't actually calling to him, yet all the same he felt an inescapable tugging in his chest. He felt as though he was being yanked from his desk, from his office, from his college...he felt as if he just gave into that slight tug he would be dragged halfway across the town until he arrived at that house's front step. There was something more to it; he knew that to be true. John knew that there was a reason that key sat in his pocket, there was a reason he was given such a burden. It wasn't just that he owned this house, he felt as though it was quite the other way around. The house owned him. He hadn't been given the deed because the Town Hall had been waiting for a John Watson to arrive; the house was instead waiting for him to return to it. The house knew when he would be back; it knew the exact time to organize the search, to put the idea in that Mrs. Hudson's head...John abandoned the papers he was grading and found his hand stuck in his pocket, fondling the key before clasping it between his fingers and bringing it out to sit on the desk. It was an old key, a gigantic metal thing for a gigantic metal lock. The sort you might find on ancient doors, and in old Victorian movies. Oh but it was beautiful, wasn't it? It was as old as the house, and yet still it shined. The sharp ringing of a bell brought him back to reality, the twelve o'clock bell...John panicked momentarily, getting to his feet and realizing now that the parade of students would be passing by any moment. He had to beat the rush; he had to get to his twelve fifteen class before those kids beat him there! His classroom wasn't far, and yet just as soon as John grabbed his coat the doors opened, and the mob started through. These classrooms were primarily for graduate students, for they were closer to the professor's offices, for easy mobility for projects and reports and even for quick chats. And yet just because these students were more educated, it didn't mean that they were any less barbaric in getting from one place to another. John hesitated in his doorway, for he didn't want to be trampled, and looked over the wave of students, looking for a gap where he might be able to slip through. Yet he didn't find a gap, he didn't find an opening...yet something much more interesting caught his eye. He saw in the mix of them all a face that he recognized, a face that he hadn't seen on this college before, yet a face that was so familiar all the same. A face that he had seen recurring in his dreams, ever since it originated in that house...the face of a ghost, coming to haunt him once more. John couldn't help but gasp, following that beautiful head of curly hair as it followed the crowd, half expecting it to disappear like it had before. When John had seen that ghost before it had vanished before he could ever get a good look, why would it not disappear now? Was it trying to agitate him more or...or rather was this man not a ghost after all? Was he actually human? John took a deep breath, dropping his coat on the floor and, before he could really process what he was doing, jumping into the mix of the students with a cry of urgency.   
"Hey, stop! Stop!" John called out, breaking into a jog to fight his way up to the man. Oh he was certain, it wasn't just a hunch...he had seen that face only for a fraction of a second before, yet it was so imprinted into his mind that he knew he couldn't be mistaken. It was him; this man that was walking through the crowds of his college...this was the ghost that had been haunting him for so long. John grabbed the stranger by the back of his coat collar, yanking him with some aggressiveness back into the wall, away from the mob of students who were trying to pass through despite the obvious struggle. The man gave a yelp of protest, gagging for a moment on his collar as it was forced up against his neck. And yet John wasn't worried about his wellbeing, for the moment he was much too preoccupied with figuring out who he was, and why on earth he was tormenting John in his new house. And so John pulled him all the way to his office, dragging him by the collar like one might do with a misbehaving child, and dragging the student through the twelve o'clock rush without a second thought to the man's dignity. John didn't care that his classmates saw him as he was being humiliated; this was ultimately what he deserved. If he was going to loiter around that house, just to scare John and imprint his face into his head, well then yes! He deserved to be publically shamed. It was no matter to John if the boy he was tugging behind him got stepped on, or laughed at. God, for a moment John had thought himself to be crazy! Little did he know he wasn't actually crazy, little did he know he was just the victim of a prank that had gone too far, into the realms of trespassing, and hide and go seek. John hauled the student into his classroom with a last final yank, sending the boy stumbling into the filing cabinets with a submissive little yelp. John bided his time then, by closing the door and putting on his sternest expression. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I don't know what's happening." The student managed fearfully, his voice sounding so weak and panicked that John almost pitied him. He almost believed him. John just scowled at him, looking him over for a moment of confirmation yet coming back without a doubt in his mind. He hadn't seen his 'ghost' for a long while, and yet this boy that stood before him was undeniably the same. He had the same face, the same hair, the same body type. Oh it hurt to recollect that dream, that dream that had left him so cold and clammy, lying next to his wife and dreaming of someone else...And yet it was him. It was most certainly him, that ghost, that dream image...they both stood before John in flesh and blood.   



	4. The Ghost In The Flesh

"What's your idea, hm? What's your goal here, in tormenting me? In _terrorizing _me?" John growled, taking a step forward to which the student just squealed again, curling his long, lean body up into a protective ball behind one of the office chairs, as if that was going to protect him from anymore of John's future violence. John stopped his advancing, seeing now that the boy was legitimately terrified, and yet he didn't stop to think for a moment. Anger was clouding his judgment, and his common sense, and instead of stopping to ask himself how this boy had gotten into his house, and disappeared before his very eyes, and appeared so lifelike in his dreams...well no! Those would require paranormal explanations, and John was determined to be rational. He wanted to believe what was in front of his eyes, this logical explanation, this cowering and terrified boy.   
"I'm sorry, Professor Watson I...I don't think I've been terrorizing you! If I have been well then...well then it certainly wasn't my intention!" the boy breathed, cowering even farther away from John yet just now mustering the courage to look him in the eyes. John stared into his gaze for a moment, seeing legitimate confusion, and furthermore legitimate terror. And so the boy was properly afraid, well that was good, wasn't it? That was useful. If he was afraid, well then surely he would very easily learn his lesson, and not dare to bother John any longer.   
"How could it not have been your _intention _to go into my house, hm? How could you have mistakenly crept around in my halls and position yourself just so that..." John's voice faded just as he was beginning to hear his own argument. "Just so that I would see you long enough for me to yell." The boy's face was contorting into something even more of confusion, as if he really didn't know what he was supposed to do now. Certainly he could see that he hadn't really done anything wrong, he was merely caught in the hands of a professor who was raving mad. Perhaps he thought he was the end of a joke, yet then again that had been John's assumption of himself up until now. Finally he was beginning to see that it was impossible for this boy to be the same one in his house, for he was so genuinely confused that he simply could not be lying.   
"I never went into your house, professor. I never did anything like that." the boy whimpered. "Please believe me."   
"I um..." John faltered for a moment, rubbing his face in some exasperation as he realized now just how stupid he had just made himself look. The irrationality of his actions began to set down on him with a crushing weight, and he was suddenly very embarrassed about the force he had used, the fear. A simple conversation might have sufficed, to clear this matter up once and for all. "I believe you. I'm sorry I think...I think I must have mistaken you for someone else."   
"There's someone stalking you, Professor?" the boy asked apprehensively, speaking now as if it was his intention to help. He had very quickly overcome his fear, and now instead of cowering he was standing straight up once more, wearing a very long coat with a bag hanging on his shoulder. He looked professional, and apologetic. As if he assumed this whole matter was still his fault, despite John's obvious error.   
"No, no one's stalking me." John grumbled, shaking his head and sighing in exasperation. Oh what a fool he was! "You just, you look like someone I thought I saw. But it's nothing, it's...I'm just letting ghost stories go to my head!"   
"I love ghost stories." The boy said instinctively, yet John waved him off indifferently. "My name's Sherlock, by the way. I'm studying chemistry."   
"Well, Sherlock, this isn't a ghost story, no there's nothing. It's not real, none of it." John sighed.   
"I hate to argue, Professor, but if I may ask, would you have accepted it was real if I had admitted to being in your house? Because you seemed pretty set on my involvement." Sherlock pointed out with a gleam in his eyes.   
"Well yes, because if you had been in there it would've made sense. But no, now I'm sure my eyes are just playing tricks on me." John grumbled, shaking his head and leaning slightly against the door, as if he was afraid that along with his crumbling mental state his legs would also give way soon enough. The boy, however, seemed to be growing more and more excited.   
"That's what they all say, Professor. People in horror movies. They always just jump to psychological issues, but in the end it really is a ghost." Sherlock said eagerly.   
"I'm sorry, but this really isn't a horror movie. And furthermore, it really is none of your concern." John grumbled, shaking his head and going now to open the door. Yet something stopped him, for a moment. His hand froze, and he felt something of a burning sensation in his pocket. At first he diagnosed it as a mere muscle spasm, but as his hand neared the handle it continued, burning now so hot that it was nearly scorching his skin. John gave a great yelp, and instead of grabbing at the door he instead plunged his hand into his pocket, unearthing the key that was now burning so hot that it singed his fingers as he grabbed it from his pocket and threw it down at the carpet between the two of them. Sherlock lunged for cover once more, as if he assumed this to be another one of John's delusional attacks. Yet no, the key landed softly on the carpet, and just as soon as it had been freed from his pocket the burning sensation stopped...as if it had never been there at all.   
"What's that?" Sherlock asked excitedly, recovering now from the shock of another suspected attack and moving in on the key.   
"That's...it was hot." John said stupidly, waving his fingers through the air as if to cool them down, yet all the same he felt no lasting effects at all. In fact, he felt no pain whatsoever, nothing like what would usually come with the aftermath of a burn.   
"I've seen that key before." the boy said thoughtfully, squatting down next to it and moving to pick it up from where it lay.   
"Careful! It just burned me!" John exclaimed, yet his words faltered when Sherlock took the key up in his hands, handling it with long, careful fingers. He looked very intensive, something like a detective who was following a clue. He looked downright entranced, with the little bit of metal he was holding in his hands. Thankfully, the boy disregarded John's burning delusions, and instead looked up at John with a look of amazement in his eyes.   
"I've seen this, I just don't know when." He admitted quietly. John hesitated, his mind immediately jumping now to the man in his house. Well if this stranger had seen the key, perhaps he really had been sneaking around! Yet just as soon as the idea came to John's mind, he disregarded it. Once again, he was letting his own delusions get the better of him.   
"Well it's a pretty common looking key." John said with a shrug.   
"No it's not. How many other keys have you seen, that are made of this thick iron?" Sherlock challenged.   
"I suppose it depends on how many old houses you own." John shrugged. A quick smile passed over the boy's lips, a smile that John had never seen before...yet one which affected him like nothing he had ever seen. It was a smile that warmed him to the bone, something that gave light to his dark heart, something that made his heavy feet feel as though they could fly... He took a quick inhale of breath, shaking out images in his mind, of that vulnerable man standing up against the bedpost, that man with the same face, and body. Yet how, _how _could they possibly be one in the same?   
"You own an old house then?" Sherlock presumed, his voice now taking a turn from excited to curious. He sounded interested in John's life, for some reason, as if John's manic episode was thought provoking for him.   
"Ya, I do now. I just got the deed a couple of days ago, God. It feels like ages but...ever since then I've felt crazy." John admitted quietly.   
"You don't say." Sherlock said with a little chuckle, holding the key in his palm and standing back up, twirling it between his fingers so pointedly. John felt as though he should take it back, for even if there was the slightest chance Sherlock had been creeping around his house, well the key would probably make his endeavors a lot easier. John almost stretched out his hand, but something stopped him, a tiny voice in the back of his head that made him stand still. Something in his head told him...it told him to stay back. That this was all meant to happen that...that the key _wanted _to be in that man's fingers. As if it had some purpose there. And so John refrained, and he watched as Sherlock looked down upon the key with a very soft expression, as he felt the meaning as well. As if that cold, iron key was warming him from the inside.   
"Mr. Holmes, do you think I'm crazy?" John asked with a trembling little voice, his hands shaking now as he shoved them in his pocket, trembling a little bit at the man who stood before him. And yet he didn't feel ashamed, he knew that while he had just met this boy in the hall, just minutes before...well there was no point in hiding anything from him. In fact, it was impossible to hide anything from him. Because their secrets felt mutual, their pasts seemed intertwined and their futures seemed...destined.   
"No." Sherlock said quietly, phrasing his words very carefully, as if he was afraid to say something wrong, as if he was afraid to trigger any more of John's little breakdowns. He took another deep breath, rattling the air between his lips yet pausing, thoughtfully. "No I don't. But I do think there's something going on, something I can't entirely explain." John blinked hopefully, nodding his head in relief. And so finally, someone understood! Someone felt it to, someone acknowledged that the house, the key, they were both driving forces to insanity!   
"Do you feel it too, then?" John asked anxiously, not able to contain his little smile of hope. And yet Sherlock shook his head, taking a step forward and handing the key out in the palm of his white hand, as if he was handing it back. Yet still, John knew that the key had not had its proper time with him. He hesitated.   
"No, I feel nothing, Professor. I just know for sure that I never told you my last name." Sherlock said finally. John blinked, feeling his limbs tense up in panic as he tried to decipher what that sentence could even mean. He stared into Sherlock's eyes, knowing of course what colors to expect to find in his irises, knowing what secrets the colors were trying to hide. John knew the secrets, yet he couldn't call upon them at the moment. He couldn't do anything but stare, and try to remember if he really had been told Sherlock's last name. Sherlock Holmes's last name. And then, in an instant, he snatched the key back from the student's hand and pocketed it anxiously.   
"I must've seen it somewhere; certainly I saw it on a file. I mean, Sherlock Holmes, it's um...it's not a common name. I heard your first name, and connected it to the last that's..." John nodded his head, grabbing at the door handle and finding now that he could open it just fine. The hall was empty. "That's how I knew it."   
"That would make sense." Sherlock agreed, knowing obviously that it was his time to leave.   
"Yes, it would make sense." John agreed with a shutter, holding the door open even wider and allowing Sherlock to move past him, moving slowly and purposefully over the carpet. He was in no hurry, yet he was on his way nevertheless.   
"Then again, Professor, sometimes things just don't make sense." Sherlock murmured, stopped right next to John yet not looking him in the eyes. And with that he passed into the hallway, blinking as if clearing his head, and starting down in the direction he had been heading before. Walking swiftly, and fast enough so that when John went to close the door, the boy had disappeared from his sight all together.

** _Entry Three: _ ** _It's called the Mad House. That's what Mr. Sherlock Holmes told me this evening, over our afternoon coffee. He doesn't do much except sit and stare, yet I found that it's not too difficult to rope him into a conversation when he's lonely enough. He knows about the house, knows things that he claims Mr. Trevor does not want me to know. He claims that everyone who stays here goes just a little mad, that they descend just a little bit further from themselves every time they leave. He claims that the process it inevitable, it just depends on how long you stay that determines how much time you have left with your sanity. Those who stay longer deteriorate slower, and so long as you stay in the walls it's a process that is so slow it's almost unnoticeable. Yet if you try to leave, it snatches something away from you. Your body walks out but your soul stays behind. Sherlock ended his story with a laugh, but I don't think he knows just what's so funny. I don't think he knows just how much I've been going through, already with needing to stay. Perhaps the house really is keeping me here, or perhaps I'm keeping myself. Maybe there's a little voice in my head, saying stay. Saying keep inside, and preserve yourself while you still can. Well, it is just a story. But all the while Sherlock Holmes laughs, he doesn't leave. And I stay silent too. I wish I could laugh it away, but perhaps we differ in what we still need to do in the outside world. He might not have a family anymore. He might have been here forever._

John stayed away for a little while. He stayed away as long as he could fathom it, as long as he could live without it. All the while, the key in his pocket kept getting heavier, as if with every passing day it needed to remind him of its presence. As if it thought it had been forgotten, and neglected, by the man who was supposed to be its owner. With its weight it called upon John to take action, it begged him to keep investigating, to find out the secrets, to found out the reason this was all unfolding around him. It was...well it was becoming rather burdensome. It was hard to just sit on his couch, and enjoy the moments of peace he was allowed. It was hard to sit at his desk, still with this thing in his pocket, weighing him against the chair yet still trying to pull him away. It was becoming hard to walk, now with one leg heaving a much more considerable burden than the other. It was hard to do much of anything except think. Because who was he kidding, this key was winning. This house was winning over his dedication, and his motivation. This house was laughing at him, telling him repeatedly, over and over again, that there was nothing he could do to avoid it. Because as he sat at his couch and relaxed, he thought about the house. And as he sat at his desk and did his work, he thought about the house. And as he walked, he thought about the house. And as he slept, he dreamed of the house, and as he ate, he thought about the house, and as he talked, his lips were forming words but those words didn't correspond to his thoughts, his thoughts that were still down the road, and through the woods, and over the potholes, and over the threshold. And in the house. And who knows what he did anymore, who knows what he said anymore? He couldn't remember his life, the last thing he could recall with vivid clarity was Sherlock Holmes's visit to his office, those eyes he could draw from memory. That face, which was so perfectly akin to the drawing that still sat on his printer paper, folded so many times and stuffed in a drawer. That face that had been in the house, on the bed, and in his dream. That face that must have reincarnated itself to match to John's timeline, and to torment him. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes's face was here to do exactly what the house was here to do. They had both fallen into place just as soon as John thought he had his life together, they had both appeared out of thin air to remind him just how mistaken he really was. And so as he sat here, hunched over his desk and trying to concentrate, trying to grade the papers that he had handed to his students...well of course his mind wouldn't steady. With every passing footstep in the hall he expected it to be Sherlock, with every little creak of the woodwork he thought it was a knock by that man's hand, coming to visit simply because he didn't know what he was supposed to do now, either. Sherlock Holmes who must be just as maddened as John...Sherlock Holmes who must be just as confused, and just as distracted. It was almost rude, keeping him from the house, don't you think? It was almost rude to open him up to this gigantic thing, this plot that had been unfolded before the two of them. Why was it in John's power to shush him away? Whatever was happening here, whatever was happening with this house and with this insanity, Sherlock Holmes was equally involved in it. Anyone who dares haunt those halls belonged there as well. Just because John owned the key, doesn't mean he owned the house. Doesn't mean he had full possession of its secrets, and its history, and its meaning. How selfish of him to assume that it was his own. How selfish was he, not to acknowledge the other parts of the whole. Well of course this was this thought process only after he was forced out of his stagnation. This was his thought process only after he had turned that key in the lock once more, and started inside the house where he belonged. This was his thought process only after he had found himself in the sitting room, standing and staring at the one picture that was still held in its dusty frame, new from the last time he visited. He only thought to consider Sherlock Holmes into this mess when he went to take the picture, this ancient black and white thing, trapped in its cage of glass and wood. Sitting on the mantle, daring to hold that man's face inside. Daring to depict a man wrapped up in nothing but that same infuriating robe, that piece of fabric that was showing too much yet too little all at the same time. Wrapped improperly, and leaning up against a bedpost...in the same state which John had seen him in the dream. Standing against that bedpost, as if someone had been standing behind John in his dream world with an old camera, snapping a shot just in time for John's eyes to meet the man's. Just in time for John to feel himself go just a little bit more insane. John snatched the picture from the mantle, staring at it intensely as if expecting it to move. He didn't want to think about this, he didn't want to know how the face of Sherlock Holmes was sitting here on his mantle, in this house, in an old, worn, and scandalous photograph. And yet it seemed to make all the sense in the world, it seemed to mean something once more. Sherlock was tangled up in this house just as much as John was, maybe even more. They both must have some sort of ancient ancestors, who had lived in this house before them. Evidently John's ancestor had his name, and Sherlock's ancestor had his face. And they had lived here years before their great great grandsons would ever find out about this perfectly intact structure. John shook his head, stumbling back onto the couch very weakly and falling into the depths of its cushions. It was still comfortable, oh _how _was a one hundred year old couch still comfortable?   
"What is going on?" John groaned, clutching the picture to his heart with one hand and messaging his aching temples with the other. He sunk deeper and deeper into the cushions, sighing with every breath and shaking his head in denial. Maybe this was all just a dream, and when he woke up he would find that everything actually made sense. That everything in his life wasn't just collecting around him to give him more of a headache, and confuse his version of reality, and jumble up his idea of time as a linear concept. What did this house want with him, what was the Town Hall trying to do, was this some sort of joke? Had they given John this key, painted his name on that will, and hired Sherlock Holmes to pose for an old picture and then meander about the college? Was this some sort of candid camera thing, were their cameras hidden in the walls, in the eyes of the statues? Was that why John never felt as though he was alone? It was easier to think that was the truth, it was easier to diagnose this entire ordeal on a carefully planned plot, and the cruelty of others, than to actually admit there might be something supernatural going on. Than to actually admit that this was...well that this simply didn't make sense. John was a man of science, he didn't like it when things didn't add up, or when pieces didn't fit into the puzzle he was trying to create. Logic had never failed him up to this point, and it was just giving him the most splitting headache. But that's what it wanted, didn't it? Whether the culprit for this scheme be some corrupt anchorman, or just simply the house itself. This was the goal, wasn't it? Somewhere, someone was laughing at him.


	5. It Doesn't Have To Make Sense

John sat miserably in his office, checking his watch to make sure he was still within his time frame. The picture sat on his desk, amongst all his other old photographs so that no one would notice anything was particularly out of place. Even though he detested that photograph, or rather just its existence in general, he still felt as though it had to be displayed. It was, well above all other things it was very beautiful. It was seductive of course, for the look in Sherlock's eyes, directed at the camera, was a look that only had one purpose. That look was the thing that drew someone in, it was the look that made the audience know for sure that they were allowed closer. His body was the prize, but that look was an utter magnet. John didn't know in what context this picture was taken, he couldn't guess as to what the motivation was behind it. Had Sherlock decided to wear such a flimsy outfit for the sake of the picture, was he posing so that all the generations after him would be entranced by his gaze? Or rather was this his natural state, and the observer wanted to capture it? What had been going on before this picture, oh but more accurately, what would go on after it? The moment that camera flashed, the moment Sherlock came back to life out of this still frame. John could imagine it now; well simply because he had seen it before. He had seen this picture before, in live action...all displayed in his head. In that dream he had, before he had ever seen Sherlock's face, before he had ever seen this picture. He knew all too well that after that camera flashed, that Sherlock would draw back his head against the bedpost, still clinging to his robe with one fist, but grabbing onto the post with his other, pulling himself against it in a helpless position. He would sigh heavily, with his chest heaving up and down so visibly, the white skin stretching across his neck, across his collarbones... He was made to be admired, that man. He was made to be worshipped, and this stance was merely his call for followers. For men to bow down before him, gasping and kissing and loving_, _so powerfully simply..._loving. _Sherlock had been immortalized in that position for a reason, so that years later, centuries later, John Watson would sit at his desk and stare at it. Stare at it so intensely that he didn't notice the man at the door, the man who was chuckling at John's dropped jaw.   
"You look busy, John." Greg said with a little laugh, moving into the room and going to shut the door before John made a noise of disproval.   
"No, keep it open. I'm expecting someone." John insisted, instinctively flattening the picture frame against his desk and trying his best to look perfectly innocent. Greg's eyebrows raised in interest, and he moved over now to one of the chairs John had arranged in front of his desk.   
"What have you been up to these past couple days? I hardly see you anymore." Greg muttered in something of a protest, crossing his arms and leaning back casually in his chair. John sighed, shaking his head as if he couldn't even begin to explain the mess he had been wallowing through for the past week.   
"Oh God, your guess is as good as mine." John grumbled. "It's just been that house, that horrible house."   
"Was it all run down then?" Greg presumed with a sad little frown.   
"No, no the opposite. It's in mint condition, Greg. Abandoned for a century, and looking like they had just walked out the door yesterday. It's ancient, and it's beautiful..." John gave a great groan of annoyance, letting his head thunk down onto his desk right next to his uneaten sandwich.   
"Well that's um...well I don't know. Is that tragic?" Greg asked apprehensively.   
"That's not it, Greg. I just feel like the house is playing tricks on me, it's getting into my head. I feel mad, Greg. I feel positively mad." John sighed.   
"Well I'm sure you're perfectly sane, John. I mean really, you're one of the smartest guys I know." Greg said with a little grin.   
"First of all, you're lying. Second of all, all mad people are intelligent. You're not a very good crazy person if you're stupid." John pointed out.   
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, most crazy people don't know they're crazy. So I guess, I mean, if you're that self-aware..." Greg began, but cut himself off with some hesitation after John stared at him for a good while.   
"You're really not helping." John said flatly. Greg nodded in agreement; looking a bit careless all the while he twiddled his thumbs together, trying to think of another conversation starter.   
"So are you going to move in there, then? If it's all fancy and stuff?" Greg presumed quietly.   
"No. No way." John said flatly. "I'm not taking my daughter anywhere near that, that _hellish _place."   
"Why do you say it's hellish? I thought this was some nice mansion, and if it's really pretty, and nicely kept, well then what's the issue?" Greg wondered in some protest, in his own mission to prove that he knew everything. Well of course he wouldn't understand, John felt as though there was only one other person who had even the capability of understanding his struggles. And that was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. The boy who should be making his way through the halls any moment now.   
"Ya, I'm sorry Greg, but I really can't put it in words. I don't think you'd understand." John admitted with a shrug, getting to his feet and walking around towards the door. The bell was going to ring any moment, already he could hear the footsteps of the approaching stampede ascending the stairwells. Already he could hear the long stride of Sherlock Holmes, somewhere now, inside of the building. As John was perched at the doorway Greg took that moment to let his curiosity get the better of him, and when John had his back turned he made a lunge for the picture that John had tried so hard to hide. John was too late in stopping him, for the only real cue he had that Greg had acted out was the great exclamation he gave; only after seeing the picture which was tucked safely behind the dusty glass.   
"Oh my God! John this is downright pornographic! What on earth do you have this on your desk for?" Greg asked in exclamation, giggling like a mad man all the while John's face turned about as red as a tomato.   
"Oh stop that, it's not my picture." John growled, snatching the frame out of Greg's hands before he could study it too carefully.   
"Not your picture? No, just holding on to it for someone else? All the while staring at it, and keeping it on your desk? My God, aren't you married to a _woman?" _Greg pointed out. John saw that he was smiling, and yet he wasn't entirely sure if Greg was joking or not. Most of John's common sense said no, that Greg's inquiries, however stupid they were, were serious. He was actually doubting his friend's loyalty and his sexuality. That only made John all the more embarrassed.   
"No, it's not mine. Well I guess it is mine, technically, but I didn't bring it here for me. I found it in the house, and I need...well I've got to show it to someone." John said quickly, hiding the picture against his chest so as to keep Sherlock's secrets safe to himself once more. Even if it wasn't Sherlock in this picture, surely the man himself would not appreciate it if John was showing his great grandfather's scandalous photographs around the campus.   
"All missions aside, John, you were staring at this thing when I came in." Greg pointed out.   
"I was thinking about it." John growled. "The very picture is a mystery, because it wasn't on the mantle when I first toured. I can swear to that, and no one's been in there except me ever since then. So not only how it got there but..." John was interrupted now when the door in the back of the hall opened, and he allowed a small little smile slip onto his lips. "Well, you'll see the other part really soon I'm sure."   
"Excuses, excuses. You were fantasizing; I saw it in your eyes." Greg teased. John sighed heavily, shaking his head but deciding that it was probably in his own best interest that he stopped arguing all together. There was no point in fighting Greg, especially after Greg had made up his mind. He would see all too soon, why this picture was such an enigma. And so John ignored Greg for the time being, and instead stuck his head out to watch the passerby. He knew that Sherlock would be among them, as he had been before. They both had twelve fifteen classes in this very building, yet those classes could wait. Those classes were not nearly as important as the house they were both now trying to figure out. Finally John saw Sherlock's face in the crowd, the face that seemed to draw his gaze like a magnet. John was quite sure that he could never miss that man, and once their eyes were locked he was sure that he could never look away. What an odd attachment the two of them had, without knowing each other at all! What an odd sort of destiny they seemed to share. John waved him down, for of course just as John could always spot Sherlock, Sherlock undoubtedly could always spot John. And the boy nodded, making his way through the crowd of people a lot more peacefully than he had during his first trip to John's office.   
"Sherlock, do you mind stepping inside for a moment? I've got to show you something." John muttered just as soon as Sherlock was within earshot. He nodded eagerly, as if he was just happy to be included once more in this little adventure, their shared ghost story as he was so anxious to call it.   
"Yes of course." Sherlock agreed, stepping into the office just in time for Greg to let out a gasp of recognition.   
"Oh my _God, _John! You've got a picture of a student?" Greg exclaimed, his face growing pale but his smile widening all the same. Certainly he was ashamed of John's scandalous behaviors, but all the same he may just be proud of himself for guessing that marriage was such a trap. Oh how he wanted to say "I told you so" after John kept insisting that he was content with his marriage.   
"No, you moron. This picture is as old as the house. But now with your little recollection, may I please ask you to leave." John suggested, ushering Sherlock inside all the while he held the door open wider, for Greg to go out.   
"What, and miss all this?" Greg asked with a little chuckle.   
"I rephrase. Leave, Greg." John corrected, forcing his lips into a smile all the while Sherlock looked between the two as if he was wondering what on earth was going on. As if he couldn't really tell what these two men knew and he didn't. Greg sighed heavily, but obviously he was in no position to argue. And so he raised his hands in surrender, shrugging his shoulders passively and getting to his feet. He paused on the way out to crane his neck up at Sherlock, studying his face as if he really couldn't understand how he could look exactly the same as the photograph.   
"Whack." Greg muttered, and that was his final word, for with that he left. John slammed the door behind him, quick enough to silence any last words Greg might have had. And now it was just the two of them, ultimately how John felt it should belong. And yet he had to admit, this picture that was still flattened against his chest wasn't just disturbing, it was also very racy. Would Sherlock be embarrassed of it, or would he be so afraid of the resemblance that he would leave John forever? Would he not care for this mystery, so long as he was still caught up in the middle of it? There was an awkwardness building between the two of them, for still when John saw Sherlock he couldn't help but see him again, in a different state...with a lot less clothing.

"What's Professor Lestrade going on about, a photograph?" Sherlock asked with something of an apprehensive little chuckle. He seemed rather perplexed, yet still interested enough to have that little inquisitive look in his eyes. John took a heavy breath, shaking his head so as to let Sherlock know he really didn't know how to phrase this.   
"I um...well I don't know." John mumbled. "Do you want to sit down?" he offered quickly.   
"No I'm fine standing." Sherlock assured.   
"It's quite a shock." John warned again.   
"I'm fine, Professor. Now what is it that you wanted to show me?" Sherlock asked insistently, for obviously he was still more interested in his upcoming class than he was with John's little ghost story. John nodded, clearing his throat nervously and wondering then if he wanted to sit down. And yet, even though Sherlock stood well above his eye level as it was, he felt as though he should at least have the potential to stare him down. And so he stayed standing, nodding to himself for motivation to continue on.   
"I was in that house again, the one I inherited." John began, pausing for a moment and wondering why he was even telling this to Sherlock. Maybe it was just in an attempt to push some of these peculiarities onto someone else as well, so that he didn't have the bear the burden of the unknown alone.   
"Yes?" Sherlock asked eagerly, reminding John that he had stopped mid idea.   
"Yes, sorry. And I found this photograph, on the mantle. It hadn't been there when I first arrived, I would swear to that. But it was there the last time, and no one has been in there without me. I would've seen, if someone had put it there. But it appeared, and well..." John took a deep breath, his fingers trembling as he finally held the picture upside down for Sherlock to take. "See for yourself." Sherlock accepted it carefully, his fingers curling around the wood very gently, as if he knew enough to treat the frame with respect. As if he could feel its connection to the house, and therefore knew that he owed it some sort of reverence. He flipped it over, and John saw the moment his face lost what little color it had. Thankfully he didn't fall down, yet all the while his knees shook with the weight of the shock, and for a moment he could do nothing but stare, with his mouth hanging agape. He didn't seem to know what to do except gape, staring hard at the picture in amazement, transfixed as he looked upon his own eyes, and his own familiar gaze.   
"That's um...that's me." Sherlock said quietly.   
"It can't actually be you." John protested with a nervous little croak, shaking his head in denial. "Can't actually be you. This picture is ancient, it's old, and withered, it was taken back when...when the house was still occupied."   
"Yes but it's me. I can prove it, I....well do you see there? That freckle there, on his shoulder?" Sherlock asked, pointing now to the merest little spot upon the photograph's shoulder. How Sherlock had seen it was beyond John, well he had stared down that picture pretty hard, and he hadn't seen anything but pure, unblemished skin. Yet just as soon as John went to point that out, Sherlock already had his tie pulled from his neck, and one of his buttons undone on his shirt.   
"No, don't show me now, come on." John groaned, feeling his face go quite red as he remembered the blinds were open, and anyone who would care to look in would find John watching as his student undressed before him. Then again, just as soon as John managed to feel embarrassed, Sherlock had pulled back his shirt enough to reveal the same sort of white skin as depicted in the picture. The same bone structure, revealed through the same thinness, and in that same spot where Sherlock had promised...   
"A freckle." John whispered, forgetting all of his hesitations and stepping in closer, to observe. It was exactly where the photograph had promised it would be, there underneath his shoulder blade, so hidden that only Sherlock (and anyone who was making a close examination of his skin) would notice. John took a deep breath, feeling his hand beginning to rise towards the man, feeling his fingers begin to stretch out eagerly...  
"It's me." Sherlock interrupted, just in time for John to pull back his hand, unnoticed. He came to his senses quickly, enough to step away and nod madly.   
"Well maybe your ancestor had the same freckle." John proposed apprehensively.   
"And the same face, and body type, and skin color, and eyes? Ancestry is just resemblance, not cloning." Sherlock said flatly. John shook his head in denial, not able to do anything but protest at this moment in time.   
"But that...that doesn't make sense. Sherlock that's, that just _impossible."_ John whispered. "You can't have lived through both centuries; you can't have survived that long."   
"I didn't say it made sense, Professor." Sherlock muttered, staring at the picture once more as his gaze softened. "I'm just saying that it's me."   
"Do you remember ever taking a picture like this?" John asked, forgetting in his urgency that he had just asked quite the personal question. Sherlock went a little bit red, staring at the picture and shaking his head a bit apprehensively.   
"No...no of course not. I would never take a picture like this." He said flatly. John nodded his head a bit awkwardly, for in the end that was sort of a good thing. If Sherlock had admitted to taking a picture like this, such a scandalous thing, well then they might have some more problems than they realized at first.   
"Do you think that..." John sighed heavily, shaking his head and turning away from Sherlock for a moment. What was he even supposed to ask, how could he even think of any more ways to phrase this so that it made sense, so that it seemed _rational. _But he was at a loss. Obviously Sherlock couldn't have taken that picture, obviously the Sherlock that stood before him was completely separate from the one in this century old picture. "But how?" was all John could choke out any longer.   
"I don't know." Sherlock mumbled quietly. "But it would seem as though this house is playing tricks on you."   
"Or on the both of us." John offered immediately, turning in enthusiasm for a moment, his heart skipping a beat as he realized what this meant. Yes! Yes, it was the both of them, was it not? The house had been waiting for Sherlock to get involved; it had been waiting for the right moment to present John with his face, and with his image. The house wanted John to see that he was not alone, and however crazy he felt, well he was not alone in that insanity! The house had brought them together for a reason, because...well maybe because they had been together before. Maybe this house was not John's alone to bear; maybe this house was not purely his burden.   
"Professor, I really must be going to class." Sherlock said finally, his hands trembling just a little bit as he handed the picture frame over to John. The man sighed heavily, feeling almost as if he had no right to take it. He felt as though Sherlock owned that picture, simply because Sherlock was the one depicted in it. Yet all the same, well he felt a certain protectiveness over it as well. It may not belong to him, but then again it was his all the same. It was his to cherish. And so John took it, nodding stiffly, hesitantly, for he didn't think that it was yet Sherlock's time to walk out of his life.   
"Do you want to see the house?" John offered in a quiet, forceful voice. Sherlock stopped, looking up at John with a very curious gleam in his eye, something of excitement. As if he had been waiting for John to ask.   
"I feel as though I have been left with no other choice." Sherlock admitted quietly. John nodded quickly, yet he really did have a hard time containing his smile. Finally, finally he was not alone in this madness.   
"When's your last class?" John asked.   
"In five minutes." Sherlock said honestly. John nodded, tapping his fingers against his legs anxiously.   
"I've got to hang around my office until three o'clock. Can you meet me here?" John suggested.   
"Of course." Sherlock agreed with a smile.   
"Good." John nodded, looking up towards Sherlock yet suddenly finding it rather difficult to look him in the eyes. It was hard to look at him, and try to keep his enthusiasm under control. Although he knew that excitement wasn't something to be ashamed of, all the same he felt a little awkward. He felt almost childish, feeling as though he was about to jump for joy after having found a suitable playmate.   
"I'll see you at three o'clock then. In the meantime, I really must go. And you have to go too, I imagine." Sherlock insisted, checking his watch one last time before shouldering his backpack and turning back towards the hallway, walking swiftly out without saying anything more along the lines of goodbye.


	6. Never In This Life

** _Entry Four: _ ** _They're both odd, they're both very odd. I feel like half the mystery of this house is the occupants who live in it, although I'm not entirely sure how the two know each other. I was told Sherlock Holmes was here on business, but he seems to do nothing business like at all. In fact I have never seen a lazier person. All he does is sit around and smoke. He never leaves the house to go on walks, or to enjoy the pond that sits out back. Whatever business he is here on, well it must only take place at night. For Mr. Holmes hardly ever converses with our host until past dinner time, when he interrupts desert in his impatience, and leaves with Mr. Trevor to go upstairs. I never see them until breakfast the next morning. It really is interesting. Sometimes I ask myself what they discuss, after the sun has set. I wonder if they've taken to gossiping, sitting in the armchairs behind a closed door, and talking about me. I worry that they think wrongly of me, for having to stay here so long. It's only been four days, but still I feel as though I overstayed my visit. Or rather...that would have been my polite inclination had this been anywhere else. I wasn't going to stay at my sister's house for this long, yet here in the Mad House (what a fitting name it was), I feel as though my trip has just begun. I'm tempted to ask Mr. Holmes how long he's been here, and yet I'm sure he'll just answer back in enigmas. He always does, that peculiar man. He never likes a straight answer. Yet I've come to appreciate them, both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Trevor. I've come to appreciate how generous they are, and how sociable they can be. Mr. Trevor very much likes long talks, long mindless rambles that go on until you're not entirely sure what time it is. And Mr. Holmes likes wine, and will talk so long as he's drinking and is being offered compliments. Funny man he is, that Mr. Holmes. Very funny indeed. Just as with the house, Mr. Holmes lingers on my mind longer with every passing day. Well, I suppose that is just a side effect of living with a very beautiful man. Beautiful things have the tendency to be unforgettable. _

John sat at his desk in something of a state of urgency. It was still somewhere inside of two o'clock, yet at what end of the hour he did not know. It took a lot of effort to strain his eyes up to the clock on the wall, and follow the hands of the clock. Besides, he found himself in a sort of dream world. Occasionally a student would stop in and ask him a question or two, whether that be on their homework, or returned tests, or just to pop in to say hello. John looked normal, he knew that he came across as such. He knew that he smiled, and chatted, and lived up to his academic expectations. He talked of bacteria with one student, and mammals with another. He told them about his weekend, and he corrected their mistakes with a blue pen. Yet he wasn't...he wasn't there. If that made any sense, no, he wasn't present. His shell of a body smiled and talked and corrected, yet his soul was still wandering. His soul was still creeping along the halls of the house, puffing out cigarette smoke and watching as Sherlock Holmes ascended the stairs in his black robe. His soul was still standing and staring, and knowing that he should follow.   
"Professor?" asked that familiar voice, that deep baritone which was the only voice that would bring his body and soul back together. No need to be in the house when he was with Sherlock, no need to avoid the present when the present was preferable to the past.   
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Sorry I was a bit...out of myself." John admitted with a little sigh, getting to his feet and grabbing the coat off of the back of his chair. Sherlock was draped in a long trench coat, with his collar stuck all the way up to his cheeks. He looked very good, very much the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. John wondered if he had a girlfriend or not, someone to appreciate him in such a sense. Someone who would have found that freckle.   
"That's quite alright Professor. I admit myself to be a little bit lost as well." Sherlock admitted with a grin.   
"It only gets worse." John promised, zipping up his jacket and grabbing the picture from his desk. He shoved it into his bag and shouldered it, grabbing finally his empty coffee mug before starting towards the door with Sherlock at his heels. Together they walked down into the parking lot, an awkwardly public place to be seen with a student getting into his car. All the same, Sherlock was a graduate student, and so there were different social norms involved. For all these spectators could know, they were simply off to do some research together. Well they were researching, just not researching anything within the range of biology, or any sort of natural science. Instead they were looking into themselves, they were studying the walls of the house, they were studying the very essence which made them whole...the things which connected them. And so no, it was not anything akin to kidnapping, or close to a social visit. They were here to investigate, they were here to discover. Sherlock sat rather awkwardly in John's car, for it was a small little thing not made for giants like him. The passenger seat was always Mary's throne, and so it was adjusted as such. Sherlock was much too polite to move it back, and so as he sat he was hunched over, with his knees coming up almost to his chest.   
"You can move the seat you know?" John offered with a little chuckle.   
"No it's...well I don't want to mess anything up. How far is the house?" Sherlock wondered.   
"It's about ten minutes." John said with a shrug. He was lying, of course. Or at least he was exaggerating his estimations, considering he didn't have to estimate. The journey from the college to the house was twelve minutes and twenty seconds, give or take. Yet John didn't want to admit how he knew that, for it may come across as a little bit obsessive, or threatening.   
"Alright, then maybe I will just move it back a bit." Sherlock decided finally, pulling the level and sliding the chair almost all the way back, just so that he could sit like a normal person.   
"Mary will figure it out in the end." John said confidently, without really thinking about what he was saying. For of course Sherlock wouldn't know who Mary was.   
"Oh your, your wife then?" Sherlock presumed, his voice getting very small and very awkward, as if he didn't really like using such words around other people. Perhaps he was just feeling a little bit awkward, considering personal lives were hardly ever discussed on a college campus, especially not between students and professors. All the same, they were on their way to a very personal place, and they were about to discuss matters which were much more personal than either one of them would like to delve into. It was rather amusing, then, to know that Sherlock had trouble saying the word 'wife' without trembling.   
"Ya." John said quietly, although his wife seemed so far away now that it was almost irrelevant to bring her up. She seemed so far away from this life, this life that they were discovering piece by piece. John knew that if Sherlock and he had any connection at all, that they would be so removed from this real world they had built up for themselves that they ought to just leave it all behind. The house operated on a different clock, the house operated with different motives, and different connections. In this world John might be a professor, and Sherlock might be a graduate student, but not in that house. In that house, all titles and roles were abandoned; in that house it seemed that anarchy might ensue. Or rather, they would revert to a more primitive version of themselves. That photograph alone proved that things happened inside those walls that could not fully be explained. That photograph proved that Sherlock here was very drastically different from the Sherlock who lived in that house. But did he live in that house? No, it was impossible. It was physically impossible for any of this to actually be true...yet all the while John's brain was betraying him. For with the arrival of another person to share in the confusion, he found himself accepting things much easier than he had before. He found himself nodding along, no matter how crazy this world got to be. He found himself making sense of it all, purely on the basis that none of it made sense at all. As promised, it took about twelve minutes for the house to finally come within view. Those remaining twenty seconds, then, were occupied with rolling up the driveway and staring down that familiar house, with the windows that seemed to be looking right back. John sighed heavily, clutching onto the wheel and reminding himself not to be afraid. Obviously this house had powers, but it didn't have the intentions of hurting them. If it wanted to kill John it would've done that by now. If it wanted to kill John, well then why was it continually leading him straight back? All the while John was staring at the house apprehensively, Sherlock was gaping. He was looking up at the house with a look that could only be recognition, with his mouth hanging open in astonishment, for he it seemed as though he had found something he never even knew he had lost.   
"This is it." John said rather obviously, pulling the car to a stop right outside the front porch. Just as soon as the car stopped moving Sherlock unstrapped himself from his seatbelt, stumbling outside in an almost maddened sort of way, as if he was staring upon one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his life. He stood gawking all the while John joined him in the gravel, smiling a bit proudly. He was happy to see that Sherlock was impressed, yet all the while he was even more pleased to see that there was something a lot deeper than just amazement. There was that same look of purpose alight in Sherlock's eyes, that same look that John wore the day he first looked upon this structure.   
"It's beautiful." Sherlock murmured, looking back at John just so that he could make sure this wasn't all some sort of big joke. Just to make sure this actually was the house, and they weren't just making a detour on their way to a shack down on the edge of the city.   
"I think so." John agreed in a sort of grumble. "But it's got far more than looks, Sherlock. Far more."   
"That's what a lot of people say about me." Sherlock mumbled a bit proudly. John looked over at him with a little side smile, however Sherlock looked a bit ashamed at his own words. Almost as if he was surprised he had actually said such a thing out loud. Then again, John decided to just ignore that comment, considering they had both been witness to his ancestor's (or past self's, who knows?) way of putting such good looks to work. And so he just got the key from his pocket, locking his car doors and starting his way up to the front door. Sherlock followed along eagerly, bounding up the stairs and breathing very deep breaths, taking in the house and all of its surroundings in the same sort of way someone might do when they have returned home after a long while. Taking in every little thing, everything they might have taken for granted before...and just savoring it all. John smiled at him, in his own way to call Sherlock to attention, and with that he stuck the key in the lock and turned. And just like that, the door swung open before them both. John stood back, lingering so that he could allow Sherlock to be the first one in. He was curious what the boy might do. John had felt drawn to certain parts of the house when he had first entered, so it might be some sort of character study to see how Sherlock might react, and where he might wander to. This might help him piece together this puzzle, once and for all. Sherlock might have been his missing link all along. Sherlock wandered inside like a man in a trance, his feet walking without full consent of his mind. He merely wandered, here and there about the foyer as if he knew just where to step, and just what to look at. For a moment he stared at the painting which was on the ceiling, and for another moment he observed the chandelier, and then again he stared for a long while at the various statues which were hidden away in the shadowed alcoves. And John merely watched, he felt as though none of the art which was hiding about this house would even come close to the amount of beauty depicted before him in human form, and so John merely closed the door behind him, pocketed the key, and leaned up against the wood. He watched as Sherlock's eyes sparkled, like a child's on Christmas day, and he watched as his long limbs swayed this way and that, swaying from side to side in his own majestic way. John felt more complete now than he ever had, there was a feeling of pleasure that wasn't just coming from himself and Sherlock, but from the house itself. It was considerably warmer, John could feel that warmth and that pride within his very bones, this house was congratulating him on following the clues it had left for him. It was congratulating him for finding the missing link, and bringing this household back together again. Something made John speculate that they had been here before, both of them in this house in other ages...long ago. The house was merely welcoming Sherlock back, it was accepting him once more as part of the family. Finally Sherlock began to walk, without a word he mounted the staircase and ascended like a man on a mission. His fingertips trailed the wooden banister, in a pattern which may already be so familiar to him, and he stepped up the stairway in quite the dreamlike stance. 

"I've seen this house before." Sherlock admitted quietly, below his breath all the while he kept walking. He kept moving forward, farther into this house where he was supposed to be. He kept stepping deeper and deeper into its walls, abandoning his life on the outside world. All the while he had never been in this house before; he was still retracting his ancient footsteps.   
"In this life?" John clarified quietly.   
"No." Sherlock whispered back, pausing at the top of the stairwell and taking a deep breath, looking around the hallways with a quiet little smile. "Not in this life at all." His gaze had now settled on the door in front of him, the door closest to the hallway, which John had not been inside before. The door was closed, and yet John had seen it opened just once before. He had seen it opened once in his dream. This was the door in which the bed stood, this was the door depicted in his photograph...This was Sherlock's bed. This was his stage.   
"You know this room?" John wondered.   
"Yes." Sherlock said simply. "Yes I feel...I feel repulsed. But welcomed. My stomach is twisting but my heart is lurching...something is in there, isn't it? Something was in there?" John sighed heavily, feeling that he could not explain this without the help of a visual aid. He grabbed the photograph from his bag, which was still hanging loyally on his shoulder, and held it up to the door for reference. In the picture you could just barely see the frame; chopped into view around the corners, and only visible if you were looking for it. Yet the frame itself was distinct, the frame which held steady around the door. It was carved like no other door, it was unique in its design and depicted distinctly in the picture that was held in John's hand. This ancient picture.   
"You were in there." John muttered simply. Sherlock nodded sharply, pushing past John as if he had enough of this drama. He pushed past John and went for the handle, opening the door up in something of a mad fit of anxiety. As if he wanted to know what was in this room more than anything in the world, as if he was expecting something that would change his life. And yet, when he opened it up, it proved to be nothing more than a bedroom. Nothing more than a large bed set in the middle of the room, with a blue comforter, looking just about as good as new. And yet all the same, that bed was the same. It was identical in the dream, and in the photograph, and in this life now. And yet all the same, as familiar as this room was to John, he still knew that it did not belong to him. No, he had never slept in that bed; he had never woken up tangled in its sheets. This was not his room; this was not where he was supposed to be. This room was bigger than his own, this bed was larger, the decorations were fancier. This wasn't a bed for a guest; this was a bed for a master. _The _master, the original owner. The name which had been painted over on the deed, in an attempt to pass off this house and all of its mysteries onto someone else, someone they considered more worthy of the burden.   
"Do you think this was your room?" John asked curiously, for of course he only had solid evidence that one other man had ever lived here. If it was not John's room, then it must be Sherlock's.   
"I can't tell." Sherlock admitted quietly. "It feels right, but it doesn't feel like I own it. I recognize it but it seems to be borrowed, all the same."   
"You don't think you just happened to um...to stay over then?" John mumbled apprehensively. "Perhaps this picture...well perhaps this was a woman's room." he suggested, although the words caught painfully in his throat. Thankfully Sherlock chuckled, glancing over at John with something of a sideways, knowing smile.   
"If the present is at all similar to the past...well then I highly doubt it." Sherlock said mysteriously, shaking his head and going back to his examination of the room. John didn't want to ask what he meant by that, he didn't feel that the question was within his rights. And so he merely lingered near the door, feeling rather like a trespasser in this room. He felt as though he was not allowed to step foot inside, without someone's permission first. Sherlock merely walked in, for he needed no special permission. He seemed to understand that, all the while he knew of course that this wasn't his room to rule over. He was just a frequent guest. John's stomach turned at the thought, for whatever reason he didn't like the idea of Sherlock being some lady's lover. He didn't like the idea of a woman being so close to him...in fact he despised the fact. For whatever reason John felt a sort of protectiveness over Sherlock, even if his past self did get up to rather scandalous forms of entertainment. That seemed so distant from Sherlock now, that seemed just so unlike him. 


	7. Another Century To Come

"John." Sherlock muttered, having peered inside of the wardrobe and been caught in something of a dead standstill. John hesitated, yet all the same he considered such a word to be a summoning, and he allowed himself to walk carefully inside of the room towards where Sherlock was standing. He had his hand on the door, holding it open so as to stare inside, at the wardrobe's contents. And yet the wardrobe was empty, save for one single garment hanging by a hangar inside. One single piece of fabric, left there with a purpose, left there with the intent of Sherlock finding it.   
"My God, it's the robe." John whispered. Sherlock took a great breath, and with something of a deep blush he slammed the wardrobe door shut, so violently that it shook the entire floor. John jumped back in surprise, not having expected such a violent reaction out of the man. Yet it was as though that robe scared him, it was if none of this had been real until he had found that garment, hanging in wait for him to find it once more.   
"John, _what _is going on here?" Sherlock whispered in a trembling voice, leaning up with his hands against the wardrobe. In such a stance it was difficult to determine whether he was holding himself up against the doors, or rather forcing them shut with all of his body weight, so as to keep something from escaping. It was as if he expected that robe to slip out through the cracks, and force itself onto his skin.   
"I don't know." John admitted quietly. "I don't know."   
"But why _me? _Why was I roped into all of this mess, this isn't my house! This isn't my house." Sherlock growled, shaking his head violently and turning on his heel, storming out into the hallway and leaving John alone in the room for a brief moment. He stared for a while at the wardrobe, tempted now to reach out and open it just a little bit, so as to see the robe hanging there where it was promised to be. Yet he refrained, he knew that it wasn't his to touch, and so just like Sherlock he turned on his heel, making something of a less dramatic exit. John of course had the manners to close his door on the way out. John found Sherlock in the sitting room, holding his head in his hands in something of a defensive manner. He dared not sit on the furniture, and so he was curled up against the wall of the fireplace, sitting on the floor with his knees to his chin. John might've thought he was crying, and yet he was shaking noiselessly. No, he didn't seem upset about anything. He merely seemed afraid. And fear was an emotion John currently knew a lot about. He lingered a little bit closer, yet he dared not speak a word, lest he interrupt Sherlock in his helpless state. And so John merely leaned against the doorway, taking a deep breath and watching in a pitiful sort of way, watching now as Sherlock cowered all the while knowing that he could do nothing to console him. He knew that this was all such a crippling burden; he knew that this was all such a puzzle that it split your brain clean in half. Oh, but was it selfish to finally appreciate that someone else understood his pain? Was it ghastly to feel something of a relief, to know now that this headache was not his alone to bear? There was someone else involved, someone else roped in without their consent. Finally, John was not on his own.   
"I hope you don't think I'm a coward." Sherlock said quietly.   
"I don't. In fact, I sort of wished I acted the same as you. Unfortunately I'm good at bottling up my emotions, and ignoring them completely. Ignoring the pain they bring." John admitted quietly.   
"John this is something more than pain." Sherlock whispered quietly. "This is something more than just...ugh! What is it; I can't even put it into words! It's just a feeling, a feeling of devouring, like something is eating me up from the inside."   
"It's the house." John said simply. "It's this place, it's the memories that are trapped here."   
"But they're our memories, aren't they John? We lived here, this is _our _house." Sherlock whispered fearfully.   
"It cannot be." John murmured. "No, we're alive now, Sherlock. Not a century ago."   
"Who knows? Maybe someone brought us back, reincarnations, necromancy, take your pick!" Sherlock insisted with something of a growl, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation. Once he picked up his head John noticed immediately that he really had been crying, for his eyes were red and watery, and his cheeks were stained with trails of moisture.   
"I don't believe in any of that." John said quietly, feeling the need to look down at his wrists, feeling the need to clarify just to be sure. No, there was no such thing as reincarnation, or any sort of Black Magic. There was just...there was just coincidences. The mere coincidence that this was all falling into place, that they were bearing such recognizable traits as their ancestors, their faces, names, and freckles. It was mere coincidences that John had peculiar birth marks, stretched all the way down his forearms in a steady, solid line.   
"I'm sorry, John, if this is going to be at all disappointing, or at all surprising. But I want nothing more to do with this house." Sherlock whispered quietly. "If there really is something going on here, well it's not my duty, nor yours, to have any part in it. If there's some plot behind all of this, well it can be foiled by simply walking away. Maybe there's a reason this house has been locked up for centuries. And maybe there's a good reason to lock it up for another century to come."   
"No, that's not a surprise." John admitted quietly, although he had to admit that the idea never crossed his mind. Never once in this entire ordeal did he have the mind to just walk away from it all. Never once did he even consider it as an option. The house wouldn't allow that, would it? The house wouldn't allow all of this to just come to an end? After it had tried so hard to bring them together, would it actually allow John to lock the door and tuck the key away, somewhere no one would find it? Well no, not if this house had powers it wouldn't. And yet, maybe this was a good way to prove the power of coincidence. Maybe this was a good way to guarantee that there was nothing more in his life than just science. Maybe, by just turning his back to this structure, he could prove that it was just a house after all. And that it could do nothing more than sit here and rot, waiting for its prey to return to it, even after they had decided to say their goodbyes.

For the first two days it was just madness, and for the first two nights it was only nightmares. John didn't know what was assailing him, if it was the house itself or merely his conscience coming back to get him. Yes, he felt bad for leaving the house in such a way, yet he still felt as though there was something more at play, something much eviler. He was seeing the house now in everything that he did, he was feeling the house now...in everything he touched. Every side glance he could swear he saw Sherlock's smiling face, and in every footstep he could hear those aged wooden floors creaking underneath him. And yet he stayed away. He stayed away from the house, from its walls, and from its deceits. He wanted nothing to do with its past, nor its present, nor its future. He wanted just to stay in his own life, with his wife and daughter, and focus on things that were real, things that made sense! He had no time for magic, and for games, and he most certainly did not intend to be the plaything of an ancient structure. And so John waited for the madness to pass, and he waited for the nightmares to fade. He waited until he dreams were not plagued with the house, the house burning, and crumbling, taking all of its memories with it. He waited until his head could return to normal, and pain didn't pound against his temples, until his stomach stopped twisting, and strength returned to his legs. It wasn't easy work, sitting out the house's despair. It was something of withdrawal, something of a physical illness from having left something behind. But just like alcohol, and just like any other drug on the market, this house was dangerous. This house was worse for you overtime than its withdrawal ever could be, and so in John's stubbornness, he persisted. Perhaps he didn't know what else to do, perhaps he didn't think he had any other option but to show the house who was in control of his own life. 

"Are you feeling any better honey?" Mary asked sweetly, hovering by the counter as John leaned over his breakfast, still unable to eat. The eggs and bacon which usually made his stomach growl in urgency were instead making him feel as though he was going to be sick.   
"Not really." John admitted finally.   
"Why don't you stay home from school today? We can all go for a walk in the fresh air; it'll be good for us." Mary suggested with a little smile, pulling John's plate out from under him with the understanding that it would go uneaten. John groaned, rubbing his dark, hallowed eyes and forcing a grin onto his face.   
"Staying home from school makes me sound like a first grader, not a professor. That's what my mother would say to me when I was running a fever." John taunted.   
"Perhaps the women in your life just know what's best for you, then." Mary suggested with her all-knowing little grin.   
"Perhaps." John admitted with a sigh. "But I haven't got a fever."   
"No, you've got something worse. Something mental, I'm afraid." Mary muttered with a frown.   
"Do you really think so?" John asked apprehensively, for he hadn't told Mary of his abandoning the house. In fact, Mary knew nothing of the house except that John now owned it. She didn't know about Sherlock, or the photograph (which still sat in John's school bag, for he couldn't bear to part with it just yet), or even the idea of immortality. Life continued on in the same way as it always had, for Mary at least. And so how she could know that John was suffering from the mental strain of having left the house behind, well he could only guess.   
"Well of course. I know it's a busy time of the year, and we haven't been sleeping much because of Rosie, and with all that running around you do for your job...well you've just been run down. And that exhaustion is catching up to you, that's all." Mary said with a sweet little look of concern. John nodded his head apprehensively, not sure whether he should be thankful or upset that Mary hadn't been able to diagnose his true issue. That issue which was standing right on the edge of his peripheral vision, in the form of a shadowy figure, a figure which bore every physical resemblance to Sherlock Holmes that it could manage. John looked away, yet it followed anyway. As if it wasn't just a vision, as if it was seared onto his eyeball, as a reminder for him to pay attention to it.   
"Yes, I suppose you're right. I am pretty exhausted." John admitted finally.   
"You've been having nightmares, haven't you honey?" Mary asked quietly, leaning up against the counter with that everlasting look of concern on her face. The microwave hummed as it spun around that little bottle of milk, for Rosie when she finally woke up.   
"Why do you say that?" John questioned quietly.   
"Because you were screaming last night, and thrashing all about. I thought it best not to wake you, and it stopped after a minute or so. Yet you looked scared, John. Really scared." Mary murmured nervously, as if she was very afraid to ask just what it was that was haunting John in his dreams. It was the house, of course...last night he had dreamt that he returned to the house, and that the statues had come to life. That as John moved up towards his room, the statues followed, walking with quiet, hallow footsteps, tracing his every step and creeping just out of his sight. Yes, it had been terrifying. John could understand why he might have been screaming.   
"It's fine now." John assured quietly. "It's just a dream." How he wished that he could have heeded his own words, and ignored his dreams like Mary had. How he wished that all of this could just subside, and slide into his past like a forgotten puzzle, left unfinished on the coffee table while papers piled up on top of it. Yet it would seem that it was not so easy to leave the house behind, and in John's efforts to prove the house was nothing but a structure, he found that he had never been more wrong about anything in his life. He took such a short hiatus, and yet with every passing day the house's anger grew stronger, and it collected its power to bring its people together once more. It didn't like to be alone. And so that night, just as soon as their eyes settled in for sleep, the house screamed. It screamed like an echoing banshee, in their heads so loudly that they sat up with a shriek of the own, clutching onto their heads in an effort to silence the noise. And yet it was everlasting, it was pounding against their temples, their skulls, their eardrums...the scream that left three heads ringing indefinitely, until one of them finally gave the house the attention it wanted so dearly.

** _Entry Five: _ ** _I don't know if I have been cursed, I don't know what sort of cruel joke is being played. I don't know if what I've witnessed is true, nor do I know quite what it is I saw. It is on account of my wandering, I know that to be sure! I know that I had set myself up to know things I never wanted to, and to see things that my eyes have been cursed to witness. Yet all the same, I had to know it, and I had to see it, in order to finally understand what it is that's going on inside this house. I understand its occupants, however much they do disgust me, now more than I ever thought possible. It was on my venture through the unexplored hallway that I found the billiard room, on one of the first days that I arrived here. And in my hour of boredom, now when I found myself curiously yet unmistakably alone, that I figured I might try my luck with shooting some of the balls. Perhaps I'll interrupt Mr. Trevor's business tonight, I reckoned, and challenge him to a game. Oh the thought sends shivers down my spine, yet I am still not positive that they are shivers of fear. I'm not sure whether or not the idea of that room scares me, or if its occupants in that moment scared me, or if I am rather just afraid of myself. Yet there is something, there is an emotion which bubbles up in my chest with the mere idea of the billiard room and the sins it occupied that afternoon. Before I even rounded the corner I heard the sounds of what appeared to be a struggle, as if there were people fighting each other from the open door. It was afraid of what I might find; whether it be an intruder or a phantom, yet all the same I persisted. How I do despise my curiosity. And so I crept down the hallway, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet, and I peered into the room to find what I at first mistook to be one man with many limbs. It was a hellish sight before I at first realized what I was seeing, and I almost let out a scream had my vision not cleared. No, it was not a single man, it was two. They were just so entangled that it was hard to determine which legs belonged to which, and which arms. Yet I recognized them, both my host and his guest of honor. I recognized the back of Victor Trevor, his waist coat and hat abandoned on the ground next to him. He stood in his shirt and vest, with the phantom limbs wrapped around him from Sherlock Holmes. The man was sitting on top of the table, with his legs wrapped so tightly around Victor's waist that I had easily mistaken them as some mutation. His arms were bare, draped across Victor's shoulders helplessly. I don't know what else he was wearing, if anything at all. Now that I recall again, his legs were bare as well. No, it was not a struggle as I had once presumed. They were not fighting, they were...loving. My breath got caught in my throat, and my stomach gave a great writhe of surprise. The sort of powerful shock that makes one feel sick, yet unable to do anything about it. I stared then, stared long enough for Sherlock to lose interest in the man he was kissing, and bring his head up to stare me right in the eyes. He didn't seem at all surprised to see me; he didn't seem to think my witnessing his faithlessness was an issue. On the contrary there was a smile on his face, God I can see it now, that grin of pleasure. That grin which changed into something of a low moan as Victor dropped his lips to Sherlock's neck, kissing him in the crevices that only a mouth can discover. All the while Sherlock stared at me, as his face began to melt in ecstasy, and his limbs began to tremble. He kept those multicolored eyes on me as long as he possibly could, knowing that I would stare back as long as he allowed me to. Yet finally Victor pushed him back onto the table, and his eyes began to droop shut. And that was when I turned and ran. I didn't want to see anything more, and yet I had seen everything I possibly could. It hurts me now, to know that while I sit here and write this they're down there still. It took me all of five minutes to decide to immortalize my experiences, considering I don't know how much longer these memories would stay fresh. I don't know why it's so essential for me to record this, for these aren't my secrets to share. Maybe I'm hoping that by writing them down I will forget them. Or maybe, by keeping them here in this page, I'm ensuring that I will never forget. I don't know which option is preferable, now that I sit here and read it back. I rather like the image, now that I think about it. Or no, perhaps I just like knowing. Perhaps I just like the fact that they're not hiding anything from me, not anymore. I feel a sort of power over them, now that I know their sins. Now that I know what they do in the night._


	8. Ear Splitting Silent Treatment

John didn't want to let the house win, but he knew that he had no choice when the screaming continued into its second day. Nothing helped relieve the pain that it caused, no amount of Advil or alcohol lessened the effect, it was merely a constant scream, a constant cry for attention, and for company. It was agonizing in all levels, both physical and emotional, because John had to wonder which voice it was using. He had to wonder, if they really had all been absorbed into that woodwork, which one of them was screaming. Perhaps it was both of them, or perhaps it was the whole lot who had ever lived there, all having donated their voices, all having donated their pain. As soon as the screaming started, John knew for sure that it would not subside until the house got what it wanted, until he unearthed that key from his junk drawer and went back to walks its halls once more. Thankfully John hadn't been dramatic, and thrown the key in a lake somewhere. Then they could never get back in, and the screaming would keep on going until they died. John brought the key to work with him, that terrible Monday morning. He felt the screaming in all of his bones, he felt it vibrating like an iron mallet, inside of his skull. His plan was to open up the house after his classes had finished, however it wasn't even before he got into his office before he was attacked by a wild, crazed looking Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been leaning against the wall of the hallway, with a bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a large purple thermos in the other. The man was a wreck, and really that was saying something considering just how beautiful he normally looked. Today there still was that presence of beauty, yet it was masked by a look of sleep deprivation and misery, as if Sherlock had to drink so much coffee just to get himself out of bed. Just as soon as Sherlock could hear John's footsteps he looked up with a sigh of relief, standing back on his feet and looking desperately at the man as he approached.   
"Professor, tell me you hear it too." Sherlock whined, clutching at his head as the screaming gave a shrill increase, as if it knew they were conspiring together. John groaned, yet nodded.   
"I don't think it's happy with us." John agreed with a sigh, unlocking his office door and stepping inside.   
"Well what are we going to do?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, if this was all to prove that the house was just a house, then I think we've been embarrassingly proved wrong."   
"Ya, I know. I know." John grumbled. "I was going to go back after classes were over, maybe if we pay it some attention then..."   
"You're going to leave me like this? You're going to leave us both suffering all day; I've got an exam after lunch! How am I supposed to _think _if I've got this voice in the back of my head, just screaming?" Sherlock whined. There was the largest of frowns on his face as he walked into the office and sank down into John's guest chair. He stretched his legs wide, messaging his temples now with his long fingers, as if he thought that might do something to alleviate the pain.   
"Well I don't know, Sherlock. What do you suggest?" John grumbled, really not in the mood to compete with Sherlock's ambition this morning. "It was your idea to leave it be in the first place."   
"Well ya, now I know that's a stupid idea. I suggest we go back." Sherlock insisted.   
"First of all, there's no _we. _Secondly, I've got a class that starts in twenty minutes, and I've..."   
"You cannot tell me that you're going to choose a forty five minute class over our own mental sanity? John who knows what this voice is doing to our brains, which parts of them it's turning to mush? Already I can't see straight, I've had a migraine all weekend, and you're telling me you're going to choose your students over that? Over finally getting to hear silence in...ugh! There it is again, getting shriller!" Sherlock yelped, closing his eyes and letting out a low groan of annoyance. John heard it too, the voice had raised an octave, as if it was deciding now was the perfect time to get more annoying, so as to persuade them both to start moving. John could see that this was a losing battle, against this boy and against this house as well. He really felt that he had nothing to do but shake his head in defeat and open up his laptop to send a quick email to his students that class was cancelled for today. They were quiet in the car, mostly because it was hard to think when there was that ever loudening screaming in the back of their brains. And yet it was becoming less pained, it was becoming quieter. With every mile they got closer to the house, the screaming started to get less frantic. As if the house knew that they were finally bowing to its wishes, and coming to solve its mysteries once more. Sherlock looked a little bit angry, yet John could not think as to why. He was doing as he asked, wasn't he? He had just sacrificed a whole class of students their valuable learning time (although he was sure none of them would be too bothered) on behalf of Sherlock's moody behavior. Oh well, maybe it was just because Sherlock was tired that he was leaning up against the door with that look on his face, nearly smashed up against the window pane. John watched him for a moment as they hit the stretch of long, straight roads. They were the only cars on these back roads at this time of morning, and so John felt as though he had something of an opportunity to observe his companion. Sherlock's eyes were dark and sunken in, as if he too had been suffering through the same withdrawal that John had felt. It was as if just after they had been introduced to the house they had been introduced to a new drug, its affect was pulling them closer and closer, and they had no chance of escape. Not anymore. It seemed now that they had no choice but to do as the house wanted, they could not leave it behind anymore, not after the house's full power had been unleashed in protest. And yet why just them? More importantly, why them in the first place? Why was this their burden to carry, to people from the college, two intellectuals who liked science more than magic, and ghost stories. Why wasn't it Mrs. Hudson who was cursed, why could Mary walk away so unscathed? Had those women even thought about the house since they had last visited, had they been having the dreams as well? And most interestingly was why John was here, why his fate was linked to this building if he wasn't even from England. Was it the tendrils of the house that had pulled him closer, to this college that was only twelve minutes from its font door? John had thought it was entirely his own idea to get away from the States, but had there been a higher power involved? Had there been a beckoning that he hadn't realized in his urgency to escape his family? John sighed heavily, shaking his head and turning his eyes back on the road, not liking the ideas that were circulating through his head. Then again, these were the first ideas he's been able to think for himself in a long while. These were the first ideas that could be clearly interpreted in his head, for as the woods came within view, the screaming had died down to something of a loud groan. It was becoming happier with them, happy that they answered when it called. Sherlock still winced, seeming to be a lot more affected by this constant noise than John was. Perhaps this was because he wasn't a father yet, and hadn't had to deal with a newborn. John bit his tongue a bit angrily, hating that thought just as soon as it crossed his mind. The idea that Sherlock would ever have a child, that he would ever marry a woman, that he would ever settle down. Something about that thought turned his stomach, and while half of his brain hissed the other half merely laughed. One was angry, while one seemed to know already that it was an impossible daydream. It knew that Sherlock didn't have it in him to marry. Finally John pulled up to the driveway, the car crunching along the gravel as it came to a stop in front of the doors. Nothing seemed to be changed from when they last left, nothing out of the ordinary at least. The screaming was still there, yet quiet enough that John could finally hear the wind brushing through the trees, and cry of the birds in the distance.   
"Hurry up!" Sherlock growled, nearly kicking open his car door in his urgency and spilling out onto the driveway. He looked completely agonized, almost as if the screaming was just getting louder in his head, while it was dulling down in John's. John nodded, fumbling for the large key in his pocket while he dashed up onto the old wooden porch. Just as soon as he stuck the key inside he pushed the door open, and for a moment all he could hear was the swinging of the door on its rusty hinges. And then, finally...silence. John sighed heavily, happy to hear his own breath once again. He looked back at where Sherlock was, now laying his limbs strewn about on the gravel, breathing heavily yet with drooping eyes, as if he could finally allow himself to relax. He was muttering something, his lips forming words that John couldn't quite make out. Most probably it was something along the lines of "thank God."   
"Is it gone for you too?" John called out to him. Sherlock sighed, opening his eyes and finally pulling himself to his feet.   
"Yes, it's gone." He murmured in relief. "Now if you'll excuse me...I'm going inside."   
"Ya, I suppose we should check around again. See if it's left us any other surprises." John agreed with a sigh. Sherlock nodded, pulling himself heavily to his feet and dragging his feet through the driveway. He clung to the banister, as if his own body weight was becoming too much, and staggered into the house. John sighed, wishing that he had brought his flashlight. It was a cloudy day, with rain in the forecast, and the house was hardly getting any light at all. It was almost pitch dark inside, however Sherlock seemed to think that was some sort of blessing, and he staggered off to the sitting room without a word of farewell. John sighed, lingering at the banister of the staircase and watching as Sherlock shuffled away, too exasperated with that man to even ask what his plans were. John did a simple loop about the house, inspecting everything so as to make sure everything was up to par. In all honesty he didn't know what to expect, he didn't even know what he was looking for. However he understood that the house had the ability to leave him surprises, he knew that if it wanted to play with them more then it would do so willingly, and anxiously. Yet upon inspection John found nothing, nothing had been out of place, and so he started back downstairs into the sitting room. He was surprised to find Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, his trench coat hung over the side and his head smashed against one of the pillows that had been sitting there. His legs were long enough to hang over the edge of the couch, and yet he looked quite settled, as if he was comfortable enough to stay a while.   
"That couch probably has more bug colonies than even I can identify." John warned, lingering now by the cold hearth. It wasn't a particularly chilly day; however inside the house it seemed especially cold. He wished now that they had some logs to throw in, and a fire to start. The house would be made much cozier if they had a fire to curl up next to, and some heat to shed on the century of chills.   
"No I'm fine. I'm fine here all the same." Sherlock assured with a large yawn. John sighed, knowing of course that Sherlock probably hadn't slept in days. Miraculously John had been able to get a little bit of sleep, for while the screaming in his head had been loud, it had been monotonous enough to be lost into the back of his mind. It was much like the screaming baby, eventually the same noise gets ignored, and you find yourself able to sleep in any situation.   
"You're not staying?" John asked with a doubtful chuckle.   
"I'm not risking _leaving, _especially not without a little sleep. What if we leave and it starts up again?" Sherlock whined defensively.   
"It's not going to start up, not if we leave with the intention of coming back." John assured quietly.   
"All the same, my head is still pounding. I still hear it, even if it's gone. Just the echoes now." Sherlock admitted with a shudder.   
"You've got an exam..."   
"At twelve o'clock, yes. It's not even ten yet." Sherlock pointed out defensively.   
"You're just going to expect me to wait here, then?" John asked with something of a growl. Sherlock turned over now, just enough so that he could look at John so as to gauge his expression. John didn't know how many expressions could go with that sentence, considering its connation seemed pretty straight forward. All the same, just as soon as Sherlock saw the seriousness in John's face he fell back down upon his pillow with a look of annoyance.   
"Well, you could always just abandon me I suppose. I've got no power against that." he shrugged. John sighed heavily, leaning against the wall and tapping his fingers a little bit angrily against his leg.   
"You know, I really am hoping this attitude of yours is just because you're tired." John snapped. Sherlock gave a little chuckle, this time rolling over so that he could keep his gaze focused on John without much effort.   
"Why do you hope so, Professor?" Sherlock asked carefully. John sighed, shrugging his shoulders and feeling a little bit uncomfortable under Sherlock's glare. The boy seemed to be reading his mind, or at least attempting to. Those eyes seemed capable of such acts; Sherlock Holmes seemed like the kind of boy who had the ability.   
"Only because I feel that I'm stuck with you, in one way or the other. I'd hate to be conjoined eternally with a little brat." John snapped, to which a great big grin stretched upon Sherlock's face. Well of course John couldn't argue with that, Sherlock's laughter was contagious, and as soon as he began to chuckle John found himself laughing as well. He was happy to see that this was a laughing matter for them both, and that they could treat it as such.   
"You'd be happy to know that it's not because I'm tired. It's because I'm _exhausted." _Sherlock corrected. "Even as a graduate student, I'm not entirely used to going an entire weekend without sleep."   
"Ah, try being a father then." John warned with a little chuckle.   
"You're a father?" Sherlock clarified in some surprise, his gaze softening into something that looked half like pride, and the other half of something along the lines of disappointment.   
"Yes, I've got a daughter. Just born last year." John agreed quietly.   
"Mm." Sherlock muttered, rearranging himself on the couch so that his arm draped down to the floor, so long that almost his full forearm could press against the carpet without strain. John watched him quietly, trying to understand what sort of game he was playing here. "I'm sure she must be the love of your life."   
"Yes of course." John agreed, though after a moment of hesitation. Sherlock nodded, sighing heavily before lying back and staring up at the ceiling now, instead of at his companion.   
"I always thought a family was something of an overrated concept." Sherlock admitted quietly. John paused for a moment, wondering whether or not he agreed for just a moment. "Freedom, that's what I aspire to have."   
"Well you haven't got any freedom now, whether you like it or not. This house is your child, and your parent. It's your shackle to this town, to this place." John warned, with a touch of offense in his voice. He really didn't like getting criticized for taking the path most traveled. He didn't want to listen to Sherlock telling him that there was any other way to go, even if he did have a point in his words. John didn't want to hear someone else taking Greg's side, and mocking him for settling down.   
"No need to get defensive, Professor." Sherlock warned. "This place will learn to let me go."   
"Not likely." John muttered. Sherlock gave another long sigh, as if he was simply too sleepy to have this conversation.   
"Make my excuses for me, Mr. Watson, if I don't wake up." Sherlock pleaded, and with that he rolled over so that his back was facing towards John. After a moment John couldn't decide if he was actually asleep or just a really good actor, and so John sighed as quietly as he could and went to sit on one of the armchairs that were positioned around the cold fireplace. He really did wish that it was warm in here; it would be a lot easier to sleep. Then again, just as the thought crossed his mind his head had already hit the chair, and within a moment, quite unintentionally, he fell straight to sleep as well. 

_John found himself sitting across from Sherlock Holmes, a face that he recognized not just from the present, but from the past as well. And yet the man seemed different, or rather he seemed different from his modern self. He was much more formal, sitting up in his straight backed chair and keeping his head more or less pressed up against the back of it. To couple with such odd mannerisms, he was smoking as well. He had a cigarette clenched between his teeth, sitting silently in an accusing manner, with his usual black robe pulled about his chest tightly, so as not to show any skin. _  
_"So why are you really here, then? Not on real business I imagine?" John asked in something of a hurtful snarl, as if he was offended that he had been left out of something. And yet John didn't know which part of himself was being displayed in this dream. While it was coming from his own mind, he seemed to be instead something of a third person observer. He was looking onto this scene, for while he noticed Sherlock's rigid posture he noticed himself as well, and the way he rather slouched in his chair. And so what was this, then? Something of his imagination, or something far more real? _  
_ "Real business. Very real business." Sherlock assured with a grin, his cigarette sticking out an odd angle as his lips spread to a smile. _  
_ "So then he's..." John paused. "You're profiting?" _  
_ "I may seem like a wealthy man, Mr. Watson, yet I am quite the contrary. And since I have no suitable home for myself, well to put it simply I get a roof over my head every night, so long as I'm willing to share the bed." Sherlock admitted with a triumphant little puff of smoke. _  
_ "You're a prostitute?" John clarified, with a sour taste upon his lips. _  
_ "I'm a traveler, Mr. Watson. Merely that." Sherlock corrected. _  
_ "A traveler who pays for lodging with his body?" John pointed out. _  
_ "Do you not assume that I love Mr. Trevor?" Sherlock wondered, leaning forward now with a playful yet knowing gleam in his eye. John hesitated, clearing his throat so as to give himself more time to think. John as the onlooker felt a very odd feeling in his stomach, for he could feel the tension in the air. _  
_ "It is not my place to judge you, Mr. Holmes." John said finally. Sherlock paused for a moment, before finally letting out a happy little chuckle and falling back in his chair. _  
_ "Best not to, Mr. Watson." Sherlock agreed. "The only one who shall properly do that is Minos...when I arrive at his doorstep." _  
_ "You think that badly of yourself?" John clarified with a raise of his eyebrows. _  
_ "I merely acknowledge that there are holier ways to live." Sherlock admitted. "Yet if I could do anything else, I don't know which occupation might be more tempting." _  
_ "So you enjoy it, you enjoy...him?" John asked in a very small voice, which got Sherlock chuckling once more. _  
_ "Don't believe me, Mr. Watson? That a man can enjoy the company of another man?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flashing in some sort of challenge. _  
_ "Well I suppose...I suppose I haven't thought about it before." John admitted quietly. _  
_ "Ah well, Mr. Watson, perhaps that is best. We don't want you tainting your little brain with thoughts such as these, all of us sinners surely don't want you company for the long run." Sherlock agreed quietly. "All the same...you know where to find me if you ever change your mind." John didn't know whose jaw dropped, yet he had the distinct feeling of absolute shock...yet something more as well. Something of a newfound tugging in his heart, something which was able to counteract all of the repulsion, and feel something a bit more like opportunity. _


	9. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

John woke with something of a jump, nearly falling out of his chair as he was flung into the real world so abruptly. He looked about to see if anything had roused him, yet he saw that the house was just as quiet as he had left it. Sherlock was asleep on the couch, now curled in a tight little ball with his hands pulling his knees close to his chest. Nothing stirred, and so John had to wonder why he had woken with such a start. Perhaps it was just because his dream was concluded; perhaps it was because that was the end of the narrative and therefore the end of his use of sleep. Oh just when he thought he had solved one mystery, here came another one to baffle him. The idea that their past lives were so starkly different than their lives before, in which Sherlock was some sort of prostitute, living here in the house at the expense of a certain Mr. Trevor. Yet who was Mr. Trevor, if he even lived here at all? Was there another person to add into their adventures, someone who had been dragged back into existence on the command of the house, and plunged into the twenty first century with the rest of them? No, John didn't want to think of it like that. He didn't want to consider that dream as reality, for what on earth did it say about Sherlock, and about John as well? There was hardly any distinction of either them to their current self, especially not Sherlock. That sweet, innocent boy who now curled over the couch, well the idea that he might have served some unholy purpose all those years ago. To think that he might've sold his body to another man, just for a place to stay? Surely the dream was far from true; surely it was just John's imagination acting up again. No, just because Sherlock was feminine in nature doesn't mean that he's gay...certainly their appearances and names have passed over throughout the years, yet not every part of their soul has remained constant. No, surely not. John couldn't allow himself to believe such things as his mind wanted to display them. Maybe that was because he wanted to think a little bit better of Sherlock, and his morality. Or maybe John was just concerned with the dream...and the way the ending had made him feel. Perhaps he didn't like the idea of his dream self getting so worked up over a simple offer, and so tempted with how that offer might correspond to real life. And this dream, well did it have any similarities to the dream he had before all of this started? The one which had first shown Sherlock's face, in which a man had whispered sharply in his ear that it was quite alright to go into the room, and to observe Sherlock in such a state? These dreams, that photograph...John didn't like the way they were painting the occupants of this house. He certainly didn't like the messages they were trying to portray...the messages that might mean they were all living some sort of homosexual way of life. John sighed, turning over in his chair and noticing now that his headache had passed. It was as if such little sleep within this house had cured him of whatever aliments being away from it had inflicted. John felt well rested for the first time in what felt like ages. And that alone made him considerably reluctant to check his watch.   
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed horrifically, blinking his eyes so as to make sure he was reading this correctly. "Sherlock get up!" he yelled, jumping from his chair and going to rouse the man who was still sleeping soundly. John shook Sherlock's shoulder, finally forcing some reaction out of the man. He yelled sharply, lunging away from John and retreating into the deeper folds of the old couch.   
"God, John what is it!" Sherlock grumbled, his voice sounding tired and not very less irritable as before.   
"It's five o'clock!" John exclaimed. Suddenly Sherlock's sleepy eyes narrowed into the expected look of fear, sitting up so rapidly that he almost smacked his head upon John's.   
"You're joking?" he clarified quietly.   
"No, I'm not joking. Why on earth would I joke about that?" John growled. Sherlock gave a great sigh, yet finally his shoulders relaxed and he fell back onto the couch in a huff.   
"Well, if it really is five o'clock then it seems as though we have slept through our troubles." Sherlock decided with a groan. John shook his head, jumping to pull his jacket on and running about in a small circle to find his bag. "Why do you rush, professor? We haven't anywhere to be anymore."   
"Says you, with no family to look after. I'm usually back by four, they'll be worried sick!" John exclaimed.   
"Won't your wife understand?" Sherlock wondered.   
"Not if I'm not there to explain it to her." John said sharply. Sherlock nodded, yet he could obviously see when it was past his time to leave. Surely he couldn't expect to lay about on that couch any longer, now that John had shouldered his bag and headed out the door.   
"I had the strangest dream." Sherlock was saying as they marched out the front door and onto the porch, finding now that the cloudy skies had changed to rain.   
"Yes, me as well." John agreed in some urgency, for he was trying to lock the door with that great big key all the while he was holding his cell phone to his ear, listening to the damning chorus of beeping. Either Mary wasn't picking up because she was angry with him, or rather she was so preoccupied with Rosie and with dinner that she couldn't hear or manage to pick up the phone.   
"Yes, something about a billiards room. In fact I do rather remember seeing one when..."   
"Mary!" John said triumphantly, for at last the buzzing had been interrupted.   
"John where on earth have you been? My God I was about to file a missing person's report! You weren't at your work, I called Greg, your phone wasn't working and..."   
"My phone wasn't working? What do you mean by that?" John asked.   
"When I called it always said the number was out of service." Mary admitted quietly, her voice sounding broken, as if she had been crying for some time.   
"Out of service? No, it's working fine that's preposterous." John muttered apprehensively.   
"Where have you been all this time?" Mary demanded finally. John hesitated, looking towards the house and then towards Sherlock, deciding finally that it would be in his best interest to lie. If he told Mary that he had fallen asleep at the house, well then she would get all up in arms against the place. She already thought it was a burden, now this may be the final straw.   
"I was out researching, with a student of mine. I'm sorry; we've been in the woods this whole time. I suppose I was just out of range, I hadn't thought to check the time until it was too late." John admitted with a sigh.   
"Greg didn't mention anything about research." Mary scolded.   
"Well I don't tell Greg everything." John defended, settling himself into his car while Sherlock got into the passenger seat, looking quiet and somewhat ashamed. Evidently he hadn't realized the consequences of John's absence, and was regretting ever underestimating the wrath of a wife.   
"Evidently. Are you still out?" Mary asked.   
"Ya, ya we're just leaving now. I'm sorry dear, I really am. I'll just drop the student off and then I'll head straight home." John demanded.   
"Oh no, no don't be so rude! The poor thing is probably starving! Have him over for dinner, as an apology for making him run around in all of this horrible rain." Mary insisted. John sighed heavily, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and hesitating to turn the car on just yet. The rain was coming down hard, thankfully providing just enough background noise so that Sherlock couldn't hear Mary's voice on the other end of the line.   
"I don't know, don't you think that's a little bit pushy?" John asked apprehensively.   
"Well if he's there, why don't you ask him?" Mary insisted, in that voice she used when she was solving John's problems for him- like a mother. John sighed heavily, for there was a very pressing feeling which was urging him to do anything but what she recommended. It seemed to him, no matter how fanciful it might sound, that to bring Sherlock to his home would be an amazing conflict of interests. No, not just interests, a conflict of worlds, of reality! If he really had lived in that house with Sherlock and how many other men, well certainly introducing Sherlock to his wife would be a wrong move? It would be clashing the two realities he knew and didn't, it would be challenging not just his way of life back then, but his way of life now as well. Yet all the same, he could hear his wife's quickening hum on the other end of the line, as if reminding him to talk quickly. In all honestly, Sherlock's presence in the house might lessen the blow of the punishment for being late. And so John sighed, holding the phone to his chest and looking over at where Sherlock sat in the seat next to him.   
"My wife asks if you might stay for dinner." John said with a little grumble. Sherlock blinked in some surprise, looking a bit apprehensive for he obviously couldn't gauge John's expression.   
"If I'm not a burden, well...does she insist?" Sherlock asked a bit nervously, his eyes narrowing in some suspicion.   
"Whenever Mary suggests anything, it is rather an insistence." John agreed with a great sigh.   
"Well then I suppose I can live without our cafeteria's lovely selection." Sherlock muttered, nodding his head for obviously he realized he had no choice in the matter. Now that he was properly well rested, he was surely too polite to refuse. John nodded, bringing the phone back to his ear.   
"Ya, he'll come." John agreed.   
"Oh wonderful! Wonderful, I'll set another plate out." Mary said excitedly, for she always did love to meet new people.   
"Yes alright. Thanks Mary." John said with a little smile. "I'll see you later."   
"Alright then, I love you John." Mary said in a teasing little voice, still like a teenager who put such meaning in such a commonly used statement.   
"Ya, love you too." John agreed, and with that he ended the call, just to ensure she didn't have any other odd requests for him.   
"Well then, to my house then." John said with a grumble.   
"Sorry if I'm intruding on things." Sherlock muttered. "But I'm sure you know that it's hard for a polite man to say no."   
"Oh you're certainly welcome. Your presence there will help Mary forget our tardiness." John assured.   
"Yes, well then I suppose that's a plus." Sherlock nodded a bit quietly. He was thoughtful for a moment, staring out the window to watch as the house faded out of their vision while John started up the driveway.   
You don't think we'll get headaches again, do you?" Sherlock wondered apprehensively.   
"No, no I don't. I think it was mad at us for something." John admitted.   
"That or it wanted to bring us there. It was depriving us of sleep so that we'd fall asleep inside. Maybe that was its plan all along." Sherlock suggested. John tensed a little bit on the wheel, looking at Sherlock for a split second before concentrating once again on the traffic. Now was the time when all of the cars hit the road, and it was no time for gazing.   
"It wanted us to sleep there? Whatever for?" John asked apprehensively, for he knew at once what Sherlock was getting at. He meant the dreams...surely he had one too.   
"Well when we're asleep it can feed us dreams, and never so vividly as when we're inside its walls." Sherlock pointed out.   
"You had an odd dream then?" John asked nervously.   
"I told you that, didn't I?" Sherlock asked with a little frown.   
"I wasn't really listening." John lied, for he just wanted to keep this conversation focused on Sherlock. He didn't like the idea of the focus shifting upon him, and the dreams he had. He didn't want to discuss his topic of conversation at that table, with the straight forward, smoking Sherlock.   
"Yes, I had a weird dream. Something so weird it could only be..." Sherlock hesitated, clearing his throat so as to disregard his previous sentence. "Well I can't but worry that there was some truth in it all."   
"You saw something...disheartening then?" John presumed.   
"I saw something that didn't seem quite right." Sherlock admitted.   
"Hm, something that seemed to be from your other life?" John asked, looking over to where Sherlock was now blushing rather heavily.   
"Something that seemed a little bit too...foreign. I suppose." Sherlock admitted.   
"You mean not something you would normally do?" John presumed.   
"Not something I would dream of doing." Sherlock agreed with a little shutter. John nodded, yet he could only guess that it had something to do with his own dream as well. Undoubtedly something which corresponded to Sherlock's little occupation. "You said you had a dream as well?"   
"Yes, well..." John hesitated, smiling a bit apologetically. "I dreamt that I was a used car salesman." He lied quickly, for he didn't want to admit to having had a dream that corresponded with Sherlock's. The man would pry, he knew that for sure, and just as soon as John admitted the truth, that he had dreamed that Sherlock would have taken such a profession, and that he would invited John to join him in his bed...well certainly there would be an impossible gap between them! Yet all the same, now John had to wonder what Sherlock's dream had been about. Was it about John?   
"You don't think my dream saw into the past, did it? You don't think there's any truth to it?" Sherlock asked nervously.   
"I think a dream is just a dream." John decided finally.   
"Ya, and a house is just a house, right? Nothing supernatural about it at all." Sherlock mocked, sounding very unconvinced.   
"If you're so determined to classify your dreams as reality, then be my guest. But I really don't think that I had been, or ever will be, a used car salesman." John snapped. Oh even as he forced those words out he had to cringe, for he hated to keep things from Sherlock. This man was someone he was supposed to share everything with. This was someone, the only one in the world, who knew what sort of struggles John was dealing with. Then again, John knew in his heart that those dreams meant something. How else could he have dreamt of that picture, before he ever saw it? How else could he have dreamt of Sherlock, before he realized that he was a real person?   
"Well I suppose you're right." Sherlock agreed apprehensively. "All the same, I can't help but worry that there's some truth in it all. I feel like we can take nothing too lightly, especially when it pertains to that house."   
"That house is nothing to fear, Sherlock." John insisted, yet all the same he felt that same sort of press upon his chest, the one which took over when he was lying. That house was something to fear, that house was a force in itself, a vengeful being. Yet Sherlock just hummed, making no move to agree or disagree. He merely nodded, and went to looking out the window in that same sort of mood, that distant mood, in which John could tell he was lost in thought. 

Mary welcomed them just as sweetly as one would expect in a lady. She walked outside to greet Sherlock in the driveway; all the while John had recited the story to him many times before they pulled up. There was not to be any talk about the house, they had been out in the woods counting salamanders for Sherlock's final project, that was all. Certainly it was a story which had many gaps, yet Mary certainly wasn't going to question the complexity of the operation, nor was she going to pull out the master degree's curriculum to check. Sherlock didn't ask why there was to be such an elaborate ploy, rather than just the plain truth, presumably because he already knew the answer to such a question. He knew that the house wasn't a commonplace conversation, especially not for overtop of the dinner table. Sherlock was hesitant, yet all the same he put on his most polite face and got out of the car with a grin. John sat for a moment, watching through the windshield as Mary shook him by the hand and introduced herself. He watched with a rather sickened stomach, already regretting mixing his two lives so forcefully. And even now he felt a sort of protectiveness over Sherlock, feeling as though he was doing something wrong, endangering him in some way here. Certainly there was no physical danger...oh but John had to think what his fellow professors might think, if they found out he had a student over for dinner. Well it happened all the time; John knew that most professors and their graduates students were very close. Yet Sherlock was chemistry, wasn't he? That was way out of John's line of work; it was uncanny to make a friend outside of your department. Well then, John would just have to pray word of this never escaped. He just had to settle in, and enjoy Sherlock's company to the best of his abilities. After all, there were worst people to host. Certainly they had a sort of chemistry that was everlasting, considering how far it seemed to have gotten them. And so John got out of the car, covering his head with his bag as he rushed into the house to escape the rain. He found Sherlock and his wife already situated in the kitchen, seeming to have begun their small talk about Rosie, who was sitting in her high chair smashing Cheerios to a pulp with her fist. She liked to abuse her food, rather than eat it.   
"Ah, there you are dear." Mary said with a smile, walking over to her husband and giving him a little kiss of hello. John felt a little bit embarrassed, for he really didn't like is wife fussing over him in front of guests, yet being as though his guest was Sherlock really made it all the more annoying. Mary was all dressed up, evidently having put herself together last minute so as to appease the guest. She tied her long blonde hair up into a braid, and was wearing a sensible purple blouse.   
"Sherlock, make yourself comfortable, please." John said with a little grin, trying now to act like a proper host. Sherlock nodded, yet his coat was already missing and his bag was sitting by the door. Obviously John was a little late for the preliminary mannerisms.   
"Lovely house you've got here." Sherlock said with a little grin. John just nodded, although he could only hope that Sherlock was thinking the same thing as him; that he's got a much better house someplace else.   
"Thank you. It's nothing fancy, but then again, with a Professor's income..." John ended his sentence there, to which Sherlock smiled and nodded in understanding.   
"Oh you'll move your way up I'm sure. As chair of the department, then who knows, maybe you'll even be president?" Sherlock suggested.   
"Oh I don't think I'm suited for anything more distinguished than a professor. Especially when it means I can't go splashing about a creek and get paid for it." John pointed out.   
"How old are you, Sherlock?" Mary asked, walking around the counter and widening her eyes while waiting for a response. Sherlock looked just a little bit taken aback, as if he was worried she doubted his intellectual abilities by asking his age.   
"Twenty three, ma'am." Sherlock admitted hesitantly.   
"Ah, good. Then I may offer you a glass of wine and not incriminate myself." Mary said with a little grin. Sherlock breathed something of a sigh of a relief, but nodded his head with a smile.   
"Yes, wine would be lovely. Thank you Mrs. Watson." Sherlock agreed.   
"And one for me, dear. If you wouldn't mind." John added quickly, for while his day hadn't been in the least bit stressful, he still felt rather drained.   
"Ah, I'm your maid now, am I John?" Mary wondered.   
"Well I can pour it myself if you think yourself above such a task." John responded a bit hotly. Mary shot him a warning glance, yet continued on getting three wine glasses from the cupboard.   
"Not at all." she muttered, obviously trying to keep their quarreling to a minimum in front of guests. 


	10. Thankful For The White Wine

For a moment they were quiet, for John turned to pat Rosie on the head in greeting. The baby didn't seem to care much that he had reappeared, and so he turned back to Sherlock and gave him something of a little smile of encouragement. Sherlock nodded, shuffling his feet a bit uncomfortably and turning his gaze back onto Mary, who was just now uncorking a new bottle from the rack.   
"So what was this business then, this great trip you went on?" Mary asked as she handed Sherlock a glass, and then one to John. They were quiet as they took their first sips, yet John shortened his appreciation of the flavor so as to be the first to answer.   
"We were tallying the salamander populations in the woods. Sherlock's project is on their effects of the salamanders in the soil's chemistry." John explained quickly, happy to have been able to tie such a project back to chemistry after all. That way Sherlock would be a better equipped liar.   
"Oh wow, that's...fascinating." Mary managed, although she didn't seem to have another word to describe it. Perhaps she didn't quite understand the connection, or care to explore any farther.   
"It shall be more interesting once we finally get out of the woods and into the lab. Biology is your husband's profession, yet I very much prefer substances to creatures. Counting little salamanders...well it's a cross I have to bear all the same." Sherlock admitted with a grin.   
"So you're a chemist, then?" Mary presumed.   
"Aspiring to be, yes." Sherlock agreed.   
"How very distinguished." Mary said with a proud little smile.   
"Well I appreciate your enthusiasm. But it's only a distinguished profession in school, I'm afraid. Come my professional years I'm sure I'll be stuck in some run down old lab testing cleaning products." Sherlock admitted with a little huff.   
"But as you said before, you'll work your way up. All careers are a pathway, not a permanent position." Mary assured with a little nod.   
"Very well put, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock said appreciatively, lifting her glass towards her before taking another sip. John sighed, worried now that his wife might be taking credit for the intellectual in the family. Certainly he couldn't allow Sherlock to prefer her over him. Thankfully the oven beeped just as John was going to open his mouth, and so the conversation was changed all the same. While Mary went to tend on the meal (chicken parmigiana, one of John's personal favorites) Sherlock wandered over to where John was standing, leaning against the counter and observing Rosie with a very curious look on his beautiful face.   
"What a very pretty child." Sherlock said, for obviously he didn't really know how else to pay a baby a compliment. The way he stayed back, as if afraid, really demonstrated his inexperience with children in general.   
"Well thank you Sherlock. I'm proud to say that I had some input." John said with a little smirk. Sherlock nodded, forcing a little laugh because he wasn't sure what else to say. John cleared his throat a bit shamefully, for he realized now that was something of an obscene joke to make with such a man. John couldn't help but think this whole night was just a very rude way to shove his family into Sherlock's face, Sherlock who might have loved him at one point in their past lives. It was almost rude, really, to force him to come to grips with the fact that he was too late to properly recreate the past. And the way he was acting, around John's wife and child, well it made him wonder constantly what might have been the context of Sherlock's dream this afternoon. He had to wonder if it had anything to do with this failed opportunity. The dinner went just as John might have expected, that is perfectly acceptable yet awkward all the same. He wasn't sure if that feeling of uncomfortableness was present in the whole of the table, yet for him specifically he found it rather difficult to concentrate. He knew that with every word out of Mary's mouth John was afraid she might say something that would embarrass him, whether it be something about his history in America and his fall out with his parents, or instead something more recent, like mishaps with Rosie or the neighbors. And when Sherlock responded back he was afraid that he might mention the house, that a slip of the tongue would lead them down that road, the road with would undoubtedly begin with Mary questioning how Sherlock even knew about the house in the first place. There was a double blind here, presumably. Mary didn't know about Sherlock's involvement with the house, for of course she didn't know there was anything peculiar about the structure at all, and in turn Sherlock didn't know that Mary didn't know. Perhaps he was under the false impression that husbands and wives tell each other everything, but considering that was not the case in this household John could only hope that Sherlock didn't betray him and this great big conspiracy. Mary's knowledge of the house wouldn't corrupt anything of course, but it might just make things more difficult. It might blend these two worlds more than John would have liked, and force his wife to linger a bit too much into his past. He had a feeling the house wouldn't appreciate meddlers, especially if that meddler was the very person who was keeping Sherlock and John apart. If they had a past romance, or even a past life at all, well certainly the house wouldn't like Mary's interference in what might be considered destiny. When finally the dishes were cleared and Sherlock made his compliments to Mary's cooking, John found himself alone in the sitting room with his acquaintance. Well, they weren't entirely alone, for Rosie was crawling about the carpet after having finished her minuscule little bites of chicken. Yet considering she was not a proper witness, John considered himself safe to talk freely. Mary was washing the dishes in the other room (Sherlock offered his assistance, yet Mary insisted that the boys go and talk their professional business), and so it was just the two of them sitting here with their half drained wine glasses. Sherlock was on what was presumably his third glass, for he really didn't want to say no, and Mary didn't like seeing an empty glass at her table. While his cheeks were getting a little bit flustered he didn't appear to be feeling the consequences of such overconsumption, in fact he seemed perfectly calm. They sat here in the calm quiet of the crackling fire, one which was actually a fake fireplace which spewed out heat and the occasional crackling sound effect. Yet it did the trick, enough so that it could set the mood of relaxation.   
"Do you think you had all this back then?" Sherlock asked finally, looking towards Rosie as she crawled about on the carpet. John sighed heavily, taking a sip of his wine but sighing in a defeated sort of way.   
"I can't say for sure either way. But I have a strong inclination to say no." John admitted.   
"Yes, me as well." Sherlock agreed quietly.   
"You don't think you had a family?" John wondered.   
"Just as you said, I have the strong inclination to say no." Sherlock repeated, forcing a sad little smile before turning his head away. "I don't know what our lives were like after that house, if we ever made it out alive that is. But I can guess that place wasn't made for people who had the capability of families. I don't think it was made for...well I guess people like you."   
"Like me? What on earth differs us now?" John asked a bit offensively. Sherlock sighed heavily, setting down his wine glass on the coffee table so as to lean forward onto his knees, almost as if he wished he hadn't said anything along those lines. Evidently this was not a question he was yet prepared to answer.   
"Well...well I mean I don't know if you knew this before, like I mean I don't know if you might've guessed at it or not." Sherlock started apprehensively. "But I'm...well I'm gay."   
"Yes." John said with a quick blink of his eyes, feeling the color drain out of his face all the same. Well he didn't know if he had known that or not, he didn't know if internally he had settled upon an option. Of course he had speculated it, due primarily to all of these dreams he had been having of their past selves. But that confirmation then made things look a little bit bleaker now, for if Sherlock really did have an interest in men then that was making John's dreams seem all the more realistic.   
"You knew?" Sherlock presumed, sounding a little bit apprehensive but relieved all the same. Perhaps he thought that John's preparation would have lessened the blow. He was wrong, for at the moment John felt that breaths were coming quite difficulty, and his expression must have at least displayed some sort of worry.   
"I did." John agreed, although he wasn't entirely sure if that was a lie or not. Sherlock nodded, yet a bit of an awkward silence persisted between them. Thankfully Sherlock found it within himself to continue on, for he was going somewhere with this argument. John couldn't think of a thing to say, and he was still nodding at regular intervals, feeling his knees become clammy and his grip tighten on his wine glass. But he wasn't afraid; no he wasn't afraid of Sherlock one bit. He was more afraid of himself, and what this confession might do to that little voice in the back of his head, the one who might dare to say that it was okay now.   
"Good. Well, like I was saying, I feel as though that house catered more to, well to people like me. I told you that I had a dream this afternoon, something that felt so real? Almost like it had happened before?" Sherlock pointed out. John nodded, although he wasn't entirely sure he had heard everything Sherlock just said. He was still rather caught up on his previous confession, all the while Sherlock didn't seem to think that it was a big deal. Why did John have to lie, just to make himself look a little bit more observant? If he had admitted to not knowing a thing about Sherlock's love life then he might've had more time to process, and would be following Sherlock's words instead of just staring at his lips while they moved and formed syllables. Those lips that may have been kissed by men, those lips that wouldn't all together protest if John just leaned over now, and...  
"You're following?" Sherlock clarified, obviously noticing now John's rather glassy stare.   
"Sorry, no I'm just...no what were you saying?" John asked again.   
"I said I had a dream, this afternoon. I think the house fed me that dream, but I saw myself with a man." Sherlock admitted quietly.   
"Who?" John asked anxiously, now suddenly very interested in what Sherlock had to say. He could almost hear it now, Sherlock's final confession, as that one single word rolled off of his tongue, the one word John was expecting..._you. _  
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted, to which John felt his shoulders shrug in disappointment. "But it was much too racy for me, I mean it was...when I say with a man I quite literally mean _with._"   
"Sleeping with him?" John presumed, to which Sherlock's face went really quite red.   
"Yes." Sherlock admitted quietly. "But I simply mean to defend my original point; I'm not quite sure what purpose that house served. But I know it was no host for anyone with the capabilities of producing a family. I could hardly imagine there was a single woman who ever stepped foot inside, save for the maids."   
"You're saying it was like some sort of...some sort of brothel for men?" John presumed.   
"Not just that, no there may have been something more dignified. Maybe I had loved that man, maybe we had a relationship. But there was something incredibly crude in the act. Something that made it seem like...like there was no real meaning in it at all." Sherlock admitted quietly.   
"That's upsetting." John admitted quietly.   
"Well yes, but it makes me wonder what you were doing there at all." Sherlock admitted finally.   
"Me? Well you never know, Sherlock, I mean what my past life was like. You never know that I don't have the capabilities of loving men." John defended, feeling rather offended that Sherlock could count him out without a single thought. Sherlock merely blinked, for obviously he picked up on John's immediate (and rather angry) offensive tone.   
"I mean no offense, Mr. Watson. Only that you're married now, to a woman, and I could only imagine that sexualities rather come along with the soul. If we really are the same people then..."   
"I could be bisexual." John offered. Sherlock nodded slowly, looking now very confused.   
"Yes, are you?" Sherlock asked. John took a shuttering little breath, taking a sip of wine with an uncomfortable little jump.   
"I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I don't know! God Sherlock, you expect me to know every crevice of my own soul, every little whim of this overactive heart of mine? Who knows what I liked then, who knows what I like now! It's just rather offensive that you don't seem to imagine me having the capabilities to be open minded!"   
"I'm not saying your close minded at all, I'm just suggesting theories!" Sherlock defended.   
"Well your theories are ridiculous! That house wasn't just a cesspool for homosexuals; it was something more than that! Just because there was one pair of you doesn't mean the whole house was lining up waiting for their turn in your bed!" John exclaimed in a shaking voice, feeling as if he was rather losing control of his words and body. He felt as though he had no other choice but to burst out into a fit of anger, simply because he felt as though anyone who was not so conflicted as he would see Sherlock's theory as a personal insult. Surely any married man would jump with claws raised at anyone who might suggest they were gay? Is that not what he was now expected to do?   
"John, I'm not saying that everyone was _with_ me, I'm merely..."   
"Well that's not even an argument that we have to have, is it Sherlock?" John asked with something of a little wince. "That's a question that's already been answered!"   
"What question?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing now in some sort of offense, as if he found John's new wild mannerisms to be rather insulting.   
"That you were a _slut." _John growled, releasing now a little maniacal laugh. Sherlock got to his feet immediately, his jaw dropping in defense, now looking ready to smack John across the face in his defense.   
"Don't you dare use those kinds of words with me!" Sherlock exclaimed. John laughed again, laughing with his own madness. He knew that he had to stop; he knew that he had to stop talking now. Yet just as anxious as he was to burst into tears and apologize, there was another part of him that was rising up in anger, trying to ensure that he wasn't the only one in this room who felt disgraced. So he got to his feet as well, knowing full well that he didn't have it within his power to stare Sherlock into the eyes, yet knowing just the same that it was worth a shot to try.   
"Well it's true, ya? It's true! You saw that photograph, well as I. Who knows who was behind the camera, who knows who was watching? Who knows just how many men held that picture in their hands and filled their pockets with coins so as to have the _pleasure _of your company?" John growled.   
"Are you calling me a prostitute?" Sherlock growled.   
"You're not the only one with dreams, Sherlock. Not the only one." John pointed out. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, taking a defensive step forward, his face now so flushed in anger that he looked as though he might burst. Yet just as he opened his mouth, just as he poised that accusing finger...   
"Now what is all this yelling about in here? Really one would think you were having an argument..." Mary's voice trailed away when she finally saw the state the men had been left in, standing now about ready to get in a fist fight. Mary gasped, putting her hands over her heart so as to make obvious her drastic surprise.   
"Mrs. Watson, I'm sorry for my rudeness." Sherlock said finally, standing up straight once more and pulling his jacket tightly across his chest. "But really I must be going."   
"Sherlock I do hope my husband hasn't been upsetting you!" Mary exclaimed in some shock.   
"I've only been telling him things he already ought to know." John grumbled.   
"Mr. Watson, I thank you for your hospitality. And for your...enlightening conversation." Sherlock grumbled. John stared at him, stared with that madness in his eyes, that little smile curling about his lips as if daring Sherlock to say another word.   
"Oh we were so ever grateful to have you." John said with a little grin. "I'm sure everyone was grateful to have you."   
"And I'm sure everyone here is grateful that we have been drinking white wine tonight." Sherlock agreed.   
"Why ever would we..." Mary was cut off when Sherlock picked up his glass, gave a quick toast to the hostess, and proceeded without any hesitation to splash whatever was left in the glass directly into John's face. Mary gasped; all the while John could do nothing but spit and seethe in his anger.   
"That's the last time you'll ever disrespect me like that, Professor. And it's most certainly the last time I try to help you in any of this. You're on your own from this point forward." Sherlock growled, and with that he stormed out of the room, not waiting for a goodbye out of his host because he knew that he would not get one. Mary rushed to escort Sherlock away (he hadn't exactly planned his lack of transportation accordingly, for he couldn't have the last laugh if he had to ask for a ride home) yet John stayed put. He didn't care how Sherlock was getting home; he didn't care about any of it. For right as soon as that boy disappeared from his vision he gave a great cry, feeling all of the anger leave his body so quickly that he became light headed, and with a little gasp he fell back onto the couch in a cold faint. 


	11. The Immortal Chain Has Broken

As soon as John woke he saw the ceiling, he smelled the wine, and he knew something was wrong. He sat up sharply to find that it was dark, the curtains were drawn and the lights were off and yet he was still laying in the living room, on the couch, as if no one had bothered to move him yet. There wasn't a pillow under his head, nor a blanket draped over him...he was left to the elements, left to gravity. His neck hurt terribly, and his shirt stunk of old dried alcohol. John would like to say that he had forgotten the events of the night; oh it would be so much preferable if he had woken up in a blackout. And yet he knew that he hadn't been drinking, he knew that he had been attacked. He knew that he had said one too many stupid things, almost as if his mouth was working on its own to get him into trouble. John sighed heavily, sitting up and messaging his neck for a moment, staring now at the blank darkness before him and appreciating the serenity. It wasn't very often that he found himself alone. Not just physically, but in spirit as well. Suddenly he felt completely detached from everything, and everyone. He felt as though he had been let off of a chain that he hadn't even known was bounding him until now. He felt free as a bird...and yet what a horrible feeling it was! For nothing had changed tonight, nothing except Sherlock's final farewell. John had been attached to that boy, that chain that had been fastened to his soul had been hooked to Sherlock's as well, and just now he found himself completely and pathetically alone. For once John missed depending on someone; he missed being joined at the hip. Just as soon as they were getting to know each other, just as soon as they were beginning to accept each other! And John just has to open his mouth, he had to open his mouth and allow all of those dumb and pointless insults to go flying out. The question now was, who was talking? Was it him, or was it the house? Was there some sort of supernatural possession that had fallen over him, in an effort to drive Sherlock away? Well no, of course not. Why would the house want to separate them now that they've come so close? Was that not their destiny, in the end? Oh but if it was, it was ruined now! If they were supposed to go live in that house again, if they were supposed to get married, whatever history decided to relive, well it was over now, wasn't it? Everything they had worked towards, everything they had been brought together to do. It had all flown out the window, simply because John couldn't hold himself back. He couldn't control his anger, nor could he understand just where that anger was coming from. He couldn't decide if he was actually upset with Sherlock, for really there was no purpose to be! There was no use, holding Sherlock accountable for the things he had done before. Even if John was correct in assuming that Sherlock was a prostitute, well what would it matter? Certainly the Sherlock he knew now held himself to a higher level of decency. Or maybe John hadn't been mad; maybe he had just been afraid. Maybe he hadn't been able to handle whatever feelings were rushing through him. It wasn't so easy for him to hear Sherlock's confession and then go straight into describing a theory. John needed more time to digest Sherlock's new sexuality, while it made no differencein their relationship whatsoever, John still felt as though there was a tailoring of memories to do. He felt that he needed to go back and look at what had happened between them, this time putting a sort of filter over it all. He had to reevaluate their time spent together, just now instead of Sherlock Holmes the student he had to look at him now as Sherlock Holmes the homosexual.Was that fair? Well certainly not, that was about as stereotypical and alienating as you can get. And yet John had to take it all in, for he felt almost as if he had been living in a deception this entire time. It made no difference in their future, yet John still had to reconsider their past, and look deeper into what was done, and what was said, to make sense of it all! He didn't want to put one label and one label only on top of his friend's face, yet then again it was certainly a label that defined a good portion of their lives. For they already knew what made them different from all the rest, and those differences may be the deciding factors as to why they had been sent back in the first place. Oh, but was John even allowed to classify them as such? Using the word _us _as if there wasstill such a thing! Had Sherlock not abandoned him, and left him on his own for such a foolish string of words, spat out in a fit of uncontrollable influence? And were they officially separated, had that seemingly invincible, immortal cord really been snapped? John lay back down on the couch, his head fogging even though he was not in the least bit tired. He felt as though this was better pushed aside, it was a thought that might be better pondered in the daylight. John still felt as though he was under the influence of something, whether it be the wine, or the delirium, or the sadness. Yet something was making it difficult to concentrate. Something was making it difficult to think of anything other than the obvious- and those eyes wouldn't leave his vision even after he had closed his own. 

John found, to his surprise, that he didn't have to make his excuses to anyone. None of his superiors seemed to notice his absence, and so there was no retaliation on that end of the spectrum. His office was quiet, and when he unlocked it he found that everything was left in order, just the way he liked it. Yet it pained him, to some extent, to leave the door open and know that he was unlikely to get a visit. He knew that it was unlikely that Sherlock would stop by, for all the while the boy seemed like a forgiving person he still seemed like someone who would know when they were properly wronged. And John knew that to, he knew when his words had cut too deep. He knew when he had crossed the line. The first visitor was Greg Lestrade, and of course he seemed just as disappointed as he was entitled to be. Certainly he had been missing his friend the day before, and since John hadn't made any excuses to anyone, he had evidently been left wondering what he had done to deserve such treatment.   
"Oh hello John.Great to see that you're back again." Greg mumbled, sinking into the chair across from the desk and staring at John accusingly. John forced his best innocent smile, yet he knew of course that he had nothing to prove to Greg. His offense had been nothing but neglect, surely Greg would get over it just as soon as they slipped into their first conversation. As for Sherlock, well that was another matter. That was something that was really starting to gnaw away at John's brain.   
"Ya, sorry about that. I got in and my head was killing me, I had to do something about it." John grumbled.   
"I saw you leaving with that student." Greg pointed out, tapping his foot rather anxiously against the floor.   
"Ya, that doesn't change the story at all. I did have a headache." John said truthfully.   
"What on earth are you getting up to with that kid? Let's not forget you've got a pornographic picture, and now you're running about and skipping classes with him? I know I'm not supposed to get suspicious, especially not of my best friend, but really John. A guy has to start wondering." Greg admitted with a little hum.   
"Oh stop that Greg, you're being stupid." John scoffed. "Truth is, I had to take him to his research project. Had to drop him off in the woods somewhere. Then I went home."   
"That's a stupid lie." Greg decided.   
"Well then it's an equally stupid truth!" John countered urgently, laughing a little bit as if he was becoming exasperated. While there was just a little bit of truth in his story it was easy to magnify that part onto his face. So long as he concentrated on the headache story he could make himself look completely trustworthy, or at least enough so that Greg would just nod along in his indifference.   
"Alright then, keep your secrets." Greg decided with a sigh. John just laughed, spinning minutely in his chair and shaking his head.   
"Got no secrets to keep, Greg." He debated, to which Greg gave a great huff, and didn't look very convinced.   
"Besides, what are you doing getting wrapped up in some chemistry major's issues?" Greg asked curiously.   
"Stalking him then, have you?" John presumed.   
"I'm not stalking anyone. I was just inferring, as to who he was. I mean ever since you showed me that picture from your creepy new house I've been wondering how he could possibly be so perfectly duplicated. It's like his ancient ancestor..."   
"Looked exactly like him." John finished finally. "Yes I know, that's the mystery isn't it?"   
"And so that's why you're all entangled with this guy, isn't it? You're on the hunt, solving your little mystery?" Greg presumed with a little grin. John sighed heavily, leaning forward on his desk and shaking his head sadly. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing with Sherlock, at least not anymore. What a straight forward answer he would've had prepared for Greg in any other circumstances. Yet now if he was to say yes he might be overstepping his boundaries, and if he said no he may just sound painfully pessimistic. He didn't know what he was doing with Sherlock anymore, if anything at all! and so in the end it was just easier to shrug his shoulders.   
"I'm not entirely sure. I don't think he's as concerned about it as I am." John admitted finally.   
"Probably because it's your house, and he couldn't be bothered with it." Greg offered.   
"You always did have such a low opinion of graduate students." John teased.   
"Well ya! I was a graduate student not too long ago, and in my experience every single one of them had a posture that was only completed when their nose was stuck in the air. They're rotten and selfish, if not battling for GPA then merely battling about their family's money." Greg grumbled.   
"I don't think they're all like that." John defended quietly.   
"Well then you're just too nice on them." Greg decided with a shrug.   
"That or they just like me." John offered.   
"No, it's definitely not that." Greg assured with a little nod. "No way people like you better than me."   
"Well that's very nice of you." John scoffed, checking his watch and giving a defeated little groan.   
"It's that time already?" Greg asked with a little sigh.   
"Yup. That time already." John agreed, heaving himself out of the desk with what little strength he had left in his legs. He really was getting tired, and the day hadn't even begun yet! The two professors said they goodbyes and went their separate ways. Greg had to go teach his criminal classes, whereas John was overseeing a lab downstairs. It was tedious, tiring work, and for the whole of it John was staring at the door, almost as if he expecting someone to walk through it. He knew that he was in no position to draw Sherlock to him, for of course the boy was going to be expecting an apology, rather than preparing to deliver one. John understood that he was in no position to be offered any sympathy, he knew that his argument was unprovoked and just plain unacceptable. And yet John wasn't sure just how permanent the damage was, he didn't know if there was ever a chance to come back from such disgrace. And so while he didn't expect Sherlock to come to him, well certainly John didn't have it within him to track the boy down instead! The poor thing, now assuming that he was alone in the world, with this secret that may never be solved. For John knew that there was no unlocking the past of this house without all of the keys, and those keys were hidden deep inside of them both. They needed their full power, together and determined, to figure out the mysteries that were plaguing them. Alone would not be enough. And so John waited a day, with nothing but the sound of footsteps in the hall, that stampede which may or may not have contained Sherlock Holmes. His door remained open, yet no one walked into the office. Day two rolled along, and it was quite the same. Day two brought nothing but a headache...a headache with a nasty vision entangled in it. Perhaps John was offering himself some sort of replacement for Sherlock, that or this vision had been sent from the house for some sort of motivation. He had to wonder if Sherlock had seen it as well, that very dimly lit scene, in which limbs and people were unidentifiable. That entanglement, sat up upon what looked like a green table, just a snippet of love in which there were lips upon a neck, and then eyes raised to face the intruder. John couldn't make out the face for sure, yet he knew who it was. He knew who it could _only _be, Sherlock Holmes, performing the very acts that John had accused him of the other night. Defiling himself for the sake of a couple of coins, allowing those men his company for his own desperate sake. The vision made John shiver, he didn't like what he saw, and furthermore he didn't like that the vision seemed to see him back. It seemed to be accusing him of something almost as if it knew it was stuck in his head, almost as if it was angry that he simply couldn't disregard it. Maybe he was going crazy, yes? But that image stuck in his head, stuck like glue...so that every passing moment he couldn't think of anything but what he had been presented with in that dim, blurred vision. A man, two men, entangled to become one. Combined, connected, one of them being Sherlock Holmes. And the other...well John could only guess to who the other one was. He could guess all day, for it might be anyone alive or dead, and yet he liked one more likely possibility. He liked the idea that it might have been someone only too recognizable, someone he saw every day when he looked in the mirror. It would make sense, wouldn't it? If they had been reincarnated for the purpose of the house, well of course there must have been something between them. Sherlock spoke of a mystery lover, yet perhaps he decided to keep away the more familiar details for the sake of John's marriage and modesty. It would be rather frightening to admit to a Professor that you were having very vivid dreams about them. So maybe Sherlock was covering it all up. John tried to tell himself that this thought process was entirely for the sake of wrapping his head around the matter. He tried to tell himself that he had no personal agenda when he tried to rationalize himself into the romantic plot of it all. It only made sense to his conscience when he decided that this wishful thinking was all in the name of science. The third day came, and still there was no word from his counterpart. John knew that it might just be best to leave it all alone; maybe he should just keep that house and visit enough to keep it satisfied. Yet he knew that was a terrible plan of attack, not just irrational but impossible as well. It seemed to him that they were both just waiting, they both knew that it would impossible to deny their connection; they knew it would be impossible just to walk away from each other because of a silly argument. John waited in vain for long enough, finally he decided that this temporary silence just had to end. They were not getting anywhere with silence, they were only kidding themselves if they thought such a grudge could last long. As if Sherlock actually believed the house would tolerate such a thing? Oh, it was difficult for John to admit it, but he did miss the boy. He missed his voice, his smile. He missed his little laugh, or that look of illumination when they pieced something else together. It was growing too long, this eternal silence. And it was time to end it once and for all.

When the fourth day came, John made himself ready for the confrontation. He waited around noon, the time when the stampede went through, and sat himself in one of the couches on the hallway. As of now it was quiet, and he could hear his own breath echoing back to him through the ancient wooden hallways. He leaned back, knowing that the silence would not last long, and set his sights on the door where the students would come rushing through. He sighed heavily, blinking away that feverish vision of Sherlock and his lover, once more it was trying to infest his vision with thoughts that he didn't have time for. Why it stuck around so vividly, well John could only guess. He didn't want such a vision; he didn't want to constantly be plagued with such things. Perhaps it was just his brain's way to make up for the lack of any real Sherlock, perhaps it was giving itself some old visions so as to account for their sudden withdrawal. John's thoughts were interrupted just as soon as the door flung open, and the first of the many started making their panicked rush to get to their next class, with their bags slung over their shoulders and their books under the arms, that look of fear in their eyes as they contemplated whether or not they were going to be late for being early. About midway through the pack, John spotted that familiar face, the one he had been waiting for this whole time. Sherlock saw him as well, and just as John jumped to his feet the boy recoiled, and attempted to walk faster. Yet John knew that he wouldn't be letting him get away, there was nothing more powerful than John's stubbornness, and no human slippery enough to get away from his grip. Yet Sherlock didn't know that, for already he picked up his pace, as if he was going to try all the same.   
"Sherlock, Sherlock can I talk to you?" John called out, joining the pack and speeding up to grab Sherlock's arm. He pulled away anxiously, yet john didn't let go, and so Sherlock's strength did nothing but pull them together in the end.   
"I told you, I'm done." Sherlock growled, trying to pry himself away all the while John stopped dead in his tracks, ensuring that Sherlock couldn't take another step away from his office. Surely the boy had to realize that he had been beaten? The rest of the crowd all moved past, muttering little complaints yet never anything vulgar enough to offend one of their professors. Most graduate students had a least an inkling of respect, which was demonstrated of course by their decency to go around.   
"And I'm telling you that you're not. I've got to talk to you, come on Sherlock." John growled.   
"I stand by my promises! I don't want to help you, someone who dared insult me..."   
"That wasn't me! God it wasn't me, it was something else, some other influence. You know that I'd never actually say stuff like that! You know that I'd never disrespect you! I of all people know that our past lives don't reflect our current ones. I of all people know that." John insisted in a whine. Sherlock hesitated, his resistance dropping for just a moment as he considered what John was saying. Yet that resistance alone made it clear that he was willing to cooperate. That made it clear that he was at least willing to hear what John had to say.   
"I'll be at your office hours, professor. But I've got to get to class." Sherlock insisted, giving a great tug of his arm and pulling himself away from John's grip. The professor nodded, deciding that he probably couldn't do better than that. And so he allowed Sherlock to walk away, in the end he decided that there was no more arguing with him, not after a reasonable agreement had been made.   
"Yes, I'll see you there." John agreed, to which Sherlock gave a stiff nod, looking over John once more before turning away and following the last of the straggling stampede. Already John looked at his watch, wondering just how long these three hours were going to manage to feel.


	12. Destinies Are A Funny Thing

** _Entry Six: _ ** _And so I've learned the truth behind my company,the truth that seemed to make it all a lot clearer. The question now is, just what do I do with such information? Obviously it's not within my power to leave...even if I did feel as though that was the right course of action. Yet I know better than to turn my back on these people, even if they did have a peculiar taste in romantic partner. In the end I know it doesn't matter, who they love doesn't affect me one bit. Or maybe it does, maybe it just encourages that little voice in the back of my head, and that little impulse I have to hold my gaze just a little bit longer. Many times I find myself staring at Sherlock Holmes, this time with the knowledge that with just a couple of pounds he could be mine. A prostitute didn't care who their next companion was, a prostitute didn't care whose bed they end up in. Just so long as that partner could pay. Oh but what madness, those thoughts really weren't my own! I'm not sure what changed, well nothing, I think. Nothing changed within me. Yet all the same, I feel like a different man. Never in a million years would I ever have found myself debating whether or not to seduce a man. Never would I have considered it an option...not until I got to this house. Here were sins run wild, unchecked, and unregretted. Here of all places I can abandon my virtues, here among what I dare call friends. Victor wouldn't mind, I'm quite sure Victor would be happy to see me descend down to his level. Perhaps he finds it amusing when well put together men come to his house, only to change so drastically. To abandon their morals, and find themselves wrapped in the arms of a man. Interesting, how likely it was beginning to seem. Interesting how tempting that man was, and how he became all the more tempting with every passing moment. It might not be a stretch, anymore, to claim that I have fallen in love. _

Thankfully Sherlock arrived right on time, just soon enough so that John would not lose his mind any longer. With every passing minute he had become more anxious, yet it was a lot better to watch the clock count towards three o'clock than away from it. The question of what to say was a lot easier to answer than whether or not Sherlock was coming at all, and so thankfully as the clock struck three there was a knock at the door. His perfect timing definitely betrayed his own urgency, for John could only assume that the boy had been struggling with his own questions, he may have been sitting out in the hallway, agonizing for a while over what to say, and who owed who an apology. As soon as the door opened John straightened up in his chair, staring up at Sherlock and feeling as though his breath had been lost from his body. He felt entranced, in a way, as he stared up to the man who walked in. That beautiful man, who took each stride as elegantly as possible, and who was now closing the door softly behind him.  
"Thanks for coming." John muttered a bit uncomfortably, now that Sherlock had made himself comfortable in one of the chairs that sat on the other side of the desk. He looked just about as nervous as John was, as if they were both struggling some with their actions of the other night. They both had regrets, perhaps all the while John was laboring under his own stupidity of yelling, Sherlock was also wishing he had never made some certain confessions. Well hopefully he didn't owe the argument to that confession; hopefully he didn't assume that John was angry at him only for his sexuality?   
"Yes well, you seemed insistent." Sherlock grumbled.   
"Is there any way I can talk you back into cooperation?" John wondered.   
"It depends how well you convince me, then. How well you spin your argument of delirium." Sherlock decided, folding his legs and leaning a bit theatrically in his chair. John wondered if he had always lounged about in such a state, and he had just been too stupid to realize.   
"Well you agree of course that such words were not my own?" John insisted.   
"They did come out of your mouth." Sherlock reminded him.   
"We live in a new world, Sherlock. Surely we know better than to believe what we see?" John insisted.   
"That's rather romantic for you, Professor." Sherlock commented. John blinked, yet he told himself that Sherlock must mean a different connation than he had at first assumed, and decided just to move on.   
"I think the both of us have to work together on this, on all of it. And I think it's rather silly to just abandon our search because of an argument." John pointed out.   
"I'm not one to take insult very lightly." Sherlock reminded him. John sighed heavily, nodding his head all the while he took to tapping a pen rather anxiously against his leg. He hardly wanted to relive the argument long enough to defend it. The words that had flown from his mouth, well they were sickening! They were words he would never care to use in his normal life, especially to a man who he respected so highly!   
"Sherlock I do give you my sincere apology. I know of course that your past life, whatever it entailed, was very much different than your current one. I can't speak for our pasts, either of them, yet I know that the man I am, and the man you are, may very well be much more respectable." John admitted quietly. Sherlock nodded, seeming just a little bit satisfied, yet his defensive posture did not break. He still looked as though he was expecting something more.   
"I'll have you know, Professor, that in this life I am a virgin." Sherlock offered quietly. John hesitated, not entirely sure if he wanted to know that or not. Then again, it was a very good defense against the accusations John had been throwing around in their last encounter. John nodded, not entirely sure how to respond to that, feeling his throat suddenly beginning to get very tight. He knew his face was glowing, yet he did not want to bring very much light to that.   
"Well then, obviously you have separated yourself quite well." John said quietly.   
"Indeed I have." Sherlock agreed, now straightening up in his chair as if he felt he needed to sit a bit prouder. "Perhaps my past self had been desperate enough to use looks for money, I myself value education, and patience as well. Waiting for the right person."   
"Yes, that is the way to do it." John agreed a bit hesitantly, feeling his throat closing a bit in anxiety. He knew that he wasn't in any position to make any suggestions, yet then again if Sherlock was waiting for the right person, and if John really was that partner he had all those years ago... No, what a terrible thought. John disregarded it, yet all the same his stomach was twisting in uncomfortable knots. He felt as though he ought to offer up some embarrassing information about himself as well, just to even out all of Sherlock's unprecedented confessions. He hated having to wallow in this boy's secrets, all the while leave himself as a closed book! Yet then again, his wife and child were explanation enough to how much he differed from Sherlock. And so John nodded his head once more, as if that action alone would be breaking through the awkward silence.   
"I can't help but think, Professor, that there may be another one of us somewhere in this world." Sherlock suggested quietly, thankfully bringing it upon himself to change the topic of conversation before John had to say anything more on the topic of virginity.   
"Why do you say that?" John wondered, just now picking up his eyes in curiosity.   
"Well the dreams we've been having, that's all. They all seem to involve someone, another character in this great play of past and present." Sherlock admitted.   
"Another character?" John asked nervously.   
"Yes of course. My dream of the billiard room, well I was with a man who certainly was not someone I recognized." Sherlock muttered. John felt his heart drop just the slightest, nodding his head slowly. Well of course he might have known this was coming...if Sherlock had seen himself with John then he might have mentioned it before. Certainly John had been preparing himself for this confession?   
"Yes, I too have had dreams. Yet I don't recall ever seeing his face..." John started.   
"I have." Sherlock said quickly. "Do you have a pen?"   
"I um...yes I should have one somewhere." John agreed, tossing Sherlock a loose piece of parchment all the while he dug around in the mess of papers for one of his pens. After a moment Sherlock got to drawing, looking quite focused in the task and therefore distracted enough to not notice John's staring at him. It was like a weight upon his shoulders, really, to sit here waiting for his competition to be drawn out on this paper. There was another man, then, someone that will arrive just to steal Sherlock away from him. Well of course John hadn't been treating Sherlock anything like a proper suitor should! And in the end, John was a married man and Sherlock had a shred of decency, nothing would have ever worked out. Yet there was something to be said about opportunity, and that little ounce of hope that stirs in your heart when there still was that off chance. There wasn't love in John's heart, at least none that he could properly recognize as of now. There was admiration, and appreciation, and of course just a sort of possession that could not go disregarded. He liked that it was just the two of them, he liked that Sherlock and he were alone against the rest of the world, and inside such a bond there must be at least some sort of unspoken romance. Yet now there was a change, now there might be something tearing them apart in the end. Sherlock's dedication to another man, Sherlock's partnership from the past. If John got lucky then the man would prove to not have survived the transition from past to present, this face that would be drawn now might have disappeared a century ago, when the house had been shut down. Yet what John already knew of his luck, well that was certainly not going to happen. He knew well enough not to count on his own fortunes, for in the end everything he wanted so dearly had a way of turning its back on him, and leaving him wondering what he did wrong to have disrespected Fate in such a way.   
"Here he is." Sherlock said finally, handing John the paper so that he could take a look. He sighed heavily, turning it towards himself and looking rather grimly down at the face. It was undeniably beautiful, someone John would certainly have no fighting chance against. Perhaps this drawing wasn't entirely accurate, maybe Sherlock was playing up his beauty in his own hopes of getting matched up with someone as attractive. It was a perfectly sculpted face, something quite like Sherlock's except a bit more mischievous looking, with dark eyes that were obviously thinking many different things at once. There were no colors visible, yet his hair was swooped across his forehead in such a way that made it obvious he used a fair amount of product, and his thin lips were poised into something of a devious smile. John saw the face and knew at once that it belonged to the stranger he had seen in that feverish vision, that face that had been with Sherlock up atop that green table, most likely the billiards table from Sherlock's own dream. And so here it was, John's undoing. The crashing and burning of his hopes of perhaps being the only man in Sherlock's life, the only one from both of his lives.  
"Very nice." John muttered. Sherlock nodded, taking the picture back with hesitant fingers and looking a bit uncomfortable.   
"I don't know who he is, only that he seemed to be important in the grand scheme of things. I think it might be worth it to do some digging." Sherlock suggested finally.   
"Digging?" John asked carefully.   
"Well yes, certainly there's records on this house that we do not know of. Surely his name must be somewhere in history." Sherlock insisted.   
"And you want to find him then? Find him today?" John presumed with a little accusing raise of his eyebrow.   
"Well yes, don't you think that's what we're meant to do in the end? We're supposed to bring the old house back together, with all of its occupants." Sherlock pointed out. John nodded quietly, not entirely sure he wanted to believe that little explanation.   
"Oh really? And this isn't just some...some expedition to find Mr. Prince Charming, hm?" John presumed. Sherlock gave a little chuckle of denial, his cheeks growing a bit red as he shook his head.   
"Don't make me out to be selfish, Professor." Sherlock begged.   
"Never." John assured quietly. "But perhaps just a little bit self-interested."   
"I admit the idea of a soulmate is tempting." Sherlock admitted quietly.   
"What makes you think he's your soulmate?" John asked with a nervous little laugh. Oh that word cut deep, and the connotations behind it even worse! Sherlock's little comment made it clear that he had already disregarded John as his option. He seemed to think that out of the two of them that had followed him through the ages, it was this mystery man that was supposed to be his partner. And not John, for whatever reason.  
"Well the dreams, of course. We seemed to be quite keen." Sherlock admitted quietly, as if he was ashamed to even allude to such obscene passion.   
"No offense, Sherlock, but you were sort of paid to be keen. Prostitutes can't be picky with whoever pays them. And there always could've been someone else, someone off to the side. A genuine interest, perhaps." John offered quickly, feeling the need to straighten himself up in his chair.   
"Perhaps. But then again, perhaps not. I can't imagine that house would offer me an image if it did not mean something, yes?" Sherlock asked a bit hopefully.   
"I never thought I'd see you this excited." John admitted finally, feeling the need to change the conversation before he incriminated himself anymore. Sherlock smiled a bit innocently, dropping his gaze to the floor as if he was ashamed to have betrayed himself with all of this enthusiasm.   
"Not excited, per say. Just hopeful maybe, that I've been right to wait all this time to find the right person. Perhaps I knew there was someone, written into my destiny." Sherlock admitted with something of a quiet smile. John sighed heavily, yet forced himself to look a little bit appreciative as well.   
"Quite so, Sherlock. Destinies are a funny thing, after all." John agreed. Sherlock nodded his head, looking down at his own drawing with something of an admiration in his eyes. John felt something of a pain in his chest, when he realized almost immediately that he had never noticed that same gaze aimed at him. 

John didn't tell Mary where he was going, partially because it was not her business to know every detail of his life, and partially because he didn't want her following. It was a Saturday morning, their planned day of investigation, and Mary's presence throughout the whole ordeal would be nothing but bothersome. Besides, the house may not admit to any of its secrets if Mary was hanging about, wanting to know what was going on the whole time. And so as John stood by the mirror, in a practical yet not all together hideous outfit (he was trying to mind his own fashion choices, if he was now up against a beautiful man for Sherlock's attention) he tried his best to ignore his wife's pestering. 

"Where is it you said you were going again?" Mary asked anxiously.   
"To the college." John said quickly.   
"_University, _Uncle Sam." Mary corrected quickly. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and grabbing his hat from the hook where it usually sat. He anticipated there might be a bunch of digging about through the less desirable parts of the house, those that he hadn't dared explore until now. He didn't know if there was an attic, yet there was most certainly a basement, and who knew what was down there? He had boots on, just in case there was any water to be stepping through, yet all the same he had dressed himself sharply and properly. He didn't want to be caught looking a mess, even if it was a mess he had to wallow through.   
"Well then, I'm going to the university." John said finally.   
"Why?" Mary wondered, bouncing Rosie up and down in her arms. That baby had just finally quieted, and John was appreciating the silence that he could hear once more.   
"Oh you know me, just catching up on grading." John lied with a sigh.   
"You could catch up on grading here." Mary insisted.   
"Ha, and listen to Rosie hollering? I can't hear myself think, much less read any of these horrific research papers." John teased. Mary sighed heavily, not looking overly pleased at John's inconvenience.   
"You know she can't help it." Mary offered in the baby's defense.   
"Yes, but thankfully I can avoid it. You have a nice day, Mary." John said with a little smile, kissing his wife and child goodbye as sweetly as he could manage before grabbing his car keys and heading out. Sherlock didn't have a car, yet just as arranged he was at the proper meeting place. Since he lived in an apartment near campus, the staff parking lot was the perfect place to go and get him. It was empty as of now, and so there were no witnesses as John pulled his car up to the curb. Sherlock was sitting on the bench, draped in that long trench coat once more, and looking quite chilled. Just as soon as he clambered into the car he held his bare hands up to the heaters, sighing in relief and wriggling deeper into the folds of his jacket. 

"Cold?" John presumed, backing out and heading down the ever familiar route to the house. Sherlock sighed heavily, finally leaning back in his chair and pouting a little bit tiredly.   
"My roommate was being a complete jerk last night." He said at last. "He hosted some sort of party, I hardly slept a wink."   
"Up too late partying then? Man, those were the days." John said with a little chuckle.   
"No, not partying! I was too busy wringing earplugs into my ears, so as to avoid their yelling. And then in regular intervals he'd come up and try to get me to join." Sherlock groaned. "I think he fancies me."   
"Oh poor Sherlock, so many suitors." John teased, to which Sherlock just sighed, as if that really was such a bother.   
"Yes well, sometimes it's nice just to hang out with a man who isn't so keen. It makes friendship only too complicated." Sherlock growled. "That's why it's nice to have you."   
"Oh well, thank you. I think?" John muttered, feeling his face get a little bit hot in embarrassment. Well, there was a certain irony there, wasn't there? All the same, such an assumption must only be spawned from the wedding ring on his fingers, nothing more. Then again, it might be good that Sherlock knew nothing. For nothing was going to come out of it, no matter how passionate John might think he is. The rest of the ride was silent, probably for the best. John didn't want to say anything stupid, nor did he want to suffer anymore casualties from Sherlock's speaking of things he didn't know. Thankfully it wasn't an awkward silence; Sherlock seemed to be quite lost in his thoughts as he stared out the window, watching as the familiar woods began to thicken around them. When finally they pulled into the gravel driveway that house stood looming before them, yet there was a feeling of welcome all the same. John realized that it had been a while since he was last here, yet all the same there hadn't been any consequences for such time away. Maybe the house understood that there had been a misunderstanding, that or it knew John was intending to come back. John couldn't help but wonder if that argument had been the house's creation entirely. Surely if Sherlock really was promised to another man, then it saw some competition in his getting so close to John? Maybe it had decided that their relationship was building up too quickly, perhaps unfairly to his true soulmate. Oh how infuriating that was, to suspect that the very house was working against John as well!   
"Oh this lovely place." Sherlock grumbled, not sounding too enthused as he followed John up the staircase and onto the porch.   
"Home sweet home." John agreed, fitting the key into the lock and pushing the door open.


	13. Solve The Mysteries As They Come

As expected, everything was just as they left it. It seemed that nothing had been disturbed in their short absence; however they weren't here to investigate every room. They were focusing today mainly on the attic and basement, where they assumed it would be most likely to find things of interest. They were looking for answers, mostly on who their new mystery man was, yet also in the search for more answers on the past. John wanted to find out everything he could, and of course he wanted some evidence to prove that perhaps there was nothing romantic going on between Sherlock and that man. He wanted proof that there were many men, and that nothing distinguished that one from the rest. If Sherlock was so set on finding his soulmate then he might just have to look in the area of things he saw as impossible. Perhaps he had to realize that a century's worth of history together might hold more weight than did a simple golden band.   
"So, what do you say? Basement first?" John suggested.   
"Oh that sounds so creepy." Sherlock admitted with a shutter, yet he nodded. John knew where the cellar door was, hidden away in the kitchen as it was with most old houses. To get to the kitchen they had to cut through that beautiful dining room, with the chairs all poised to host another feast, and the windows standing so tall and proud on the opposite wall. There seemed to be no evidence of age in this room, for even the red curtains hung stiff and strong. It was a gorgeous room, somewhere John could see himself hosting happily. It was a strange vision, really, and yet he could see himself and Sherlock sat in those chairs, in their waistcoats of that appropriate fashion. He could see the table laden with food; he could see the sunlight streaming in through the glass. He could envision a life here, with that man, regardless of what time period it was. Perhaps it was a dreadful thing to speculate, but John was quite sure that he could live here with Sherlock if the boy would finally permit it. The kitchen was much less glamorous; it wasn't nearly as fancy, with mere wooden countertops and an ancient gas stove. All the same, the kitchen wasn't what they were here for. Their door in the corner was their subject of interest, that little white painted thing. It gave John the creeps just looking at it, partially because he knew that no one had been down there for as long as the house has been left abandoned, and secondly because he knew that anything could be down there, waiting for him. Who knows wat could be there, how many animals, or even corpses! And there certainly wouldn't be any lighting, that was for sure. Good thing John had packed his flashlight.   
"You can go first, John." Sherlock suggested a bit apprehensively, standing over near the stove while John gave him a grin of annoyance yet forged ahead. He unlatched the door and let it swing open, revealing some stone steps leading into a stiff, dank darkness. John hesitated, shining the beam of his heavy flashlight to illuminate the basement before he stepped inside.   
"Well then, down we go." John said nervously, stepping down onto the first step and descending slowly and carefully. It didn't seem too extraordinary; there was a large boiler in the corner, undoubtedly responsible for the oil or heat. There was a water tank, and some discarded furniture, and a ton of boxes scattered about.   
"Well these boxes look promising." John announced, looking back up the staircase to see Sherlock still lingering in the light. "What, aren't you coming?"   
"Do you really think I should?" Sherlock asked apprehensively. "I mean, maybe you could just check the boxes, see if there's anything..."   
"You're coming! Come on, coward." John insisted, watching with a look of disappointment as Sherlock finally began down to the first step. His only flashlight was on his phone, and there was a very obvious look of terror upon his pretty face.   
"I don't like this." He said obviously, however all the same he started down the steps with something of determination.   
"It's fine, just old boxes and furniture." John assured. Sherlock nodded, finally arriving at John's shoulder and standing quite close, as if he was looking for protection.   
"Aren't there rats?" he whispered.   
"Not that I see." John shrugged, staring towards the boxes and noticing that Sherlock mimicked every one of his footsteps, so as not to lose any of that protective distance. For whatever reason that was terribly flattering, and John rather liked it. He wondered now why he didn't bring Sherlock to scary places before, just to ensure his sudden dependency. John prodded at some of the boxes, to be sure that there wasn't anything alive inside, before finally trying one of the lids. They were made of cardboard, miraculously untouched by any mold or water damage. The box's lid flung open to reveal plates of the finest china, all unscathed and wrapped in paper for protection.   
"Oh wow! Look at this Sherlock, must be worth a fortune." John said excitedly, moving forward and unearthing a nice plate from the mix.   
"We shouldn't sell them, they belong to the house." Sherlock said nervously.   
"Yes I know. But still, think of how old these must be." John said with a smile, demonstrating the plate to Sherlock before setting it back into its spot in the paper. "Hundreds of years, possibly even as old as the house."   
"Crazy." Sherlock admitted carefully. John moved then to another box, this one filled with candelabras of some sort. The next was filled with books, which was interesting since there was a perfectly big library upstairs.   
"It all seems like old crap, nothing along the lines of memorabilia." John said in disappointment, unearthing a box of old bedsheets with a disappointing sigh.   
"Well, it's not crap per say, but it doesn't help us any bit either." Sherlock agreed, still examining the china. "You don't think we could bring this up, set the table?"   
"Why would you want to do that?" John asked with a laugh.   
"Well we could have dinner here, of course! How funny would that be? Get some take away and light all the candles, drink wine from the glasses and enjoy a fancy night?" Sherlock suggested a bit eagerly.   
"That's very...well actually I rather like the idea." John agreed. "A good ending to a day of digging."   
"Have you looked through the boxes enough?" Sherlock asked. John sighed heavily, giving the last one something of a kick before nodding his head.   
"Ya, nothing of importance down here." he agreed with a sigh. And so together they lifted up the boxes of china, as carefully as they could considering its age and worth. They set the boxes in the kitchen, to be arranged when they had more time on their hands, and decided then to head upstairs and look for the attic. Surely it would be a more watertight place to keep their prized possessions, or rather a good spot to hide old family heirlooms. John knew that they would have more luck in the attic, that is if they were ever able to find it. And so they set up the stairs, knowing of course that the door would be on the top floor if it was hidden anywhere. John felt something of anticipation in his stomach, knowing that whatever they find in this attic may very well determine the course they were set to follow. If they really were here again, whether it be by the will of the house or of God, well then surely they were here for a reason! Was it to fulfil their destinies, or to rewrite their stories, to correct the mistakes they had made before? Was Sherlock destined to fall back into someone's arms, or was he here entirely to prove that he could make his way through life without living off of the pocketbook of a desperate, lonely man?   
"You think it'll be a door?" Sherlock asked as they started their way around the third floor, one of the most underwhelming parts of the house. Presumably it was for guests, that or for servants. The rooms weren't as breathtaking, but there was a quaint little lounge in the middle of the floor that looked worthwhile.   
"No, I think it'll be a trapdoor." John admitted, searching the ceilings instead of the walls for the telltale outline.   
"Do you think this house has any secret passages?" Sherlock asked eagerly.   
"No, I don't think so. And even so, it's got so many secrets that it's infrastructure has got to be the most underwhelming." John decided with a little grumble.   
"What if it's a passage to some sort of...torture chamber?" Sherlock suggested.   
"It's not a castle." John reminded him.   
"It may very well have been." Sherlock mumbled, patting the walls in admiration. John sighed heavily, not very thrilled that Sherlock was trying to become the house's favorite as well.   
"Ah, there we go! Well no wonder I didn't notice it before, it's only just a little string." John said with a little frown, finally noticing an interruption in the ceiling. There was nothing more than a line carved through, making a big enough trapdoor to fit a person or a small piece of furniture. It wasn't the most impressive thing, yet all the same its secretive nature made it all the more exciting. Attics had plenty of uses, some for criminal activity and some for mere hoarding. John may very well be excited for both. Yet he hadn't exactly thought this through, for while the string was short the ceiling was tall, and he realized immediately that even if he jumped he wouldn't be able to reach. Oh how humiliating it was, to have to ask for help.   
"Sherlock, you don't think you could reach that, do you?" John muttered with a little frown. Sherlock's smile turned into a teasing little grin, for obviously he thought it was rather adorable that John needed his help.   
"Aw John, can't reach?" Sherlock teased, patting his head as you would with a dog. John growled, pushing him away and folding his arms a bit moodily.   
"I can still beat you to a pulp, I guarantee it." he defended quickly.   
"That really doesn't make you special." Sherlock reminded him, wiggling his little noodle arms so as to demonstrate his own weakness before reaching up and grabbing the string effortlessly. When he pulled the ceiling flap fell right down, in a violent flop of wood that might have decapitated one of them, had they not ducked for cover. A ladder folded down just as rapidly, smacking to the floor with deadly accuracy, where John had been standing not a moment before. Thankfully the two men had huddled against the wall together, and even in their delirium John could've sworn he heard Sherlock give a little yelp of fear.   
"Well then, found the attic." John said carefully, looking up apprehensively so as to make sure nothing more was going to fall down in an attempt to kill them.   
"Indeed." Sherlock agreed, also craning his neck so as to look inside. There was sunlight streaming through, making it look a lot more pleasant than the basement had in its threatening darkness. There was a smell of mildew, but beyond that John couldn't distinguish anything more.   
"Do you want to go first this time?" John suggested with a little chuckle.   
"Oh no, you're the adventurous one." Sherlock insisted, stepping aside as if he was doing John a favor by being a coward.   
"Yes of course I am." John agreed with a little chuckle; however he grabbed his flashlight and started up the ladder all the same. He was surprised by how much stuff the old owners (or maybe himself, who knows?) had managed to shove up through that tiny little hole in the ceiling. He found many large pieces of furniture, covered very ominously by white sheets that were stained yellow with age. There seemed to be a dresser, a wardrobe, even an old mattress supported by a bent old frame, disfigured the edges so as to make it fit. The attic itself wasn't large, yet it was filled to about its carrying capacity, with one little window made to illuminate things better.   
"It's fine!" John announced, looking now to the ceiling so as to make sure there weren't any bats hanging around. Thankfully he seemed to be the only living thing, up until Sherlock ascended to join him.   
"Well that's a relief. My parents have got rats in their attic." Sherlock admitted.   
"I thought there were rats somewhere here. I saw some evidence before, but I can't find where they might be hiding." John muttered with a frown.   
"Maybe that's this house's biggest secrets. Where it's hiding the vermin." Sherlock suggested with something of a chuckle.   
"You're right here, aren't you? Not a big secret after all." John muttered, to which Sherlock gave a weak sort of slap and ventured deeper into the attic.   
"No boxes or anything." he commented with some disappointment, pulling a sheet off of one of the wardrobe and examining the beautiful carved woodwork. Why such a beautiful piece of furniture would be stashed in the attic really was something of a mystery. There were just some old suits hanging inside, nothing of overwhelming importance or value. Sherlock gave a little sigh of annoyance, yet he closed the door and moved now to the desk.   
"Well I don't know if the previous owner had anticipated us coming back to investigate." John admitted. "There wouldn't be a box here labeled _answers to your questions." _  
"Weren't we the previous owners?" Sherlock pointed out, tearing the sheet off of the desk and nodding proudly. "Beautiful." He muttered, though John wasn't entirely sure if he was commenting on the desk itself, or the reflection Sherlock saw in the mirror. In John's opinion, both was the correct answer anyway. The desk had plenty of drawers, none of which Sherlock seemed to interested in. his attention had instead been caught, as usual, by the shining thing that was sitting on the desk. It was a simple band of gold, something rather unexciting in John's mind. Yet just as soon as Sherlock saw it he gave a little cry of recognition, as if that little ring had meant so much to him at one point. The very idea made John a bit sick, for he of all people could identify an engagement ring. He had to look at them so dreadfully long, so long ago when he thought he had picked the right partner.   
"_Oh look!" _Sherlock cried in astonishment, picking up the ring in some urgency and sliding it onto his finger as quickly as he could. It wasn't much more encouraging when the ring slid so easily onto his finger, almost as if it was fitted exactly for him.   
"Wonderful, an engagement ring." John muttered. "Left there, that's rather telling."   
"Oh surely it's owner must've put it down and died, or something." Sherlock suggested with a shrug.   
"Possibly." John muttered. "Or the owner was reconsidering, and left it there to ponder."   
"You say that as if you want that to be the case." Sherlock pointed out, admiring the ring on his finger as he held it up to the sunlight.   
"I'm just brainstorming, Sherlock. Solving the little mysteries as they come." John pointed out.   
"Little mysteries." Sherlock repeated quietly, dropping his attention from the ring yet not sliding it off just yet. John frowned, for he really didn't like the look of it on Sherlock's usually unburdened hand. This mystery man wasn't even named, yet he already seemed to have Sherlock entranced to the point of engagement! It sickened John to even think of such things. Sherlock took to investigating one side of the desk drawers while John rather absent mindedly pulled open another side, poking about in the contents to find what looked to be a leather bag filled with something heavy.   
"Coins." John said instinctively, throwing the bag onto the desk and listening to the clatter the metal made against the wood. Sherlock nodded, looking a bit nervous as he reached for the bag and investigated the contents.   
"And pounds. Old ones." He commented.   
"This must've ben your desk, then." John decided without even thinking of what sort of insult that would've been. Then again, Sherlock seemed to have come to that same conclusion, for he was quiet for a moment, dumping some of the old coins onto the desk and sighing.   
"Well, a bag of money isn't that suggestive. Besides, if I really did...well if I really did have such an occupation I wouldn't have gotten my own desk." Sherlock pointed out. "I wasn't a permanent resident."   
"Well if you were engaged you would be." John pointed out, nodding again to the ring that was still sparkling on Sherlock's finger. The boy twisted the ring a bit apprehensively, yet kept it there all the same.   
"Nothing here links this to me." he said again, in some sort of denial. John nodded, going through desk some more and unearthing some sort of old envelope, something with an undeniable scribble on the front. He hummed in excitement, looking up towards Sherlock and flashing the envelope proudly.   
"You were saying?" he said with a little chuckle. Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning now on the desk in some sort of shock, as if he still wasn't prepared to find such damning evidence. Maybe all of this wasn't real enough to him, not until that envelope labeled _Mr. Sherlock Holmes. _  
"Ancestors share names." He whispered.   
"Not faces too." John pointed out again, in reference to the picture they had found before. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, welcome to your past." Sherlock gave something of a shutter, now going to sit on the desk in some agony, hanging his head in his hands and shuttering nervously. While Sherlock recovered from the shock of his cyclical timeline John took to opening the letter. Well that might be some sort of invasion of privacy, however with some examination of the contents he found with something of a fearful shutter that he wasn't invading anyone's privacy. In fact it seemed as though this letter belonged as much to him as it did to Sherlock...for it was Sherlock's name on the envelope, but John's name at the bottom. 


	14. Not My Current Words

"Oh God." John whispered, his legs going just about as weak as Sherlock's as he read the contents all the way through. Yet he didn't sit on the desk, not where this letter might be in full view of Sherlock. No, it was good that he had found this before Sherlock did. It was good that he found it before he incriminated them both.   
"What is it?" Sherlock whispered, finally letting his pale face out of his hands.   
"Nothing, oh it's just...taxes. That's all." John said forcefully, folding the letter hastily along those age old creases and starting now to tuck the thing back inside of its envelope. God he wished there was some sort of fire, something where he might be able to burn this horrid thing!   
"Liar." Sherlock said quickly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."   
"Well haven't I?" John said with an anxious chuckle, finally sealing the envelope. "Aren't we both sort of ghosts, I mean if you think about..."   
"You're changing the subject. What's in that letter?" Sherlock demanded, getting to his feet. John panicked for a moment, starting now to shove the envelope into his pocket, shaking his head again and trying to force a calm smile onto his face. How was he to disregard this thing as useless, now that Sherlock had detected his lies?   
"Nothing, I told you it's just spam mail." John pointed out with a shudder.   
"If I was a prostitute I wouldn't be filing for taxes, now would I? Come on then, don't make me take it from you." Sherlock warned.   
"No, no. Trust me Sherlock; you don't want to read this." John insisted.   
"I would, I really would. It's mine, isn't it? Does it go along with this ring, hm? Is it from my lover?" Sherlock asked anxiously, just now making a lunge. Thankfully John was quicker than that, and he scampered away from Sherlock's long limbs and avoided him once more. That very question sickened John to the core, yet he shook his head once again.   
"Don't even try it, Sherlock. Don't." John insisted. Sherlock ran at him again, to which John ducked away, and this continued for quite some time until finally Sherlock used his only formidable weapon. Sure he had long limbs, yet John was quicker, stronger, and running purely on fear. However, whether Sherlock had planned it or not, he played now to his only advantage, and John's only weakness. He used his beauty so as to disadvantage John for just a quick moment, and he did so only when he tripped over the foot of some sort of desk chair. Maybe that chair had been planted there by some sort of higher power, for it was ever so convenient that Sherlock might fall in the very direction that John had been standing, and John then standing directly in front of the old bed. And so together they fell, Sherlock giving a terrified little cry as he wrapped his long arms around John, as if to make sure he would break any fall they both took. Yet it ended so that they didn't hit the floor, they hit the mattress, and for a just a quick moment John felt paralyzed from head to toe, for he had not been tangled with anyone in such a state of breathlessness before, he had not held another body close for as long as he could remember...for as long as he had this wedding ring. There was a moment when they were both impaired, obsessed now only with the weight and proximity of the other, and the heart beats that were flaring up so agressivley in their chests. John wondered for a split second if that was it, if they had been both fighting something for so long, and this fall may just be the tipping point. He wondered for a moment, as he stared with eyes wide into Sherlock's beautiful, swirling irises, if this was not the moment that they both abandoned any shred of decency they might have had and given way to their century old desires. God, if there was a chance that they might be destined for each other, well then what better chance to prove it than now? Yet just as John had thought of the idea, and as all of his limbs went numb in anticipation, Sherlock finally found the power within himself to sit up, snatch the envelope from John's pocket, and jump to his feet in victory.   
"Aha!" he exclaimed, sounding completely unfazed by the moment they had just shared, presumably because he had not realized enough to label it as such.   
"No, God don't read that." John grumbled.   
"And why not?" Sherlock challenged as he fished the letter out of the envelope.   
"Because it appears that I wrote it." John whispered, just now straightening himself up on the mattress yet staying seated, so as to curl into that ball of shame. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, staring at John as if to wonder what ever that could mean.   
"You wrote this?" he clarified.   
"Yes. And it's embarrassing." John admitted quietly.   
"Embarrassing." Sherlock muttered. "Well surely that's a word for you, and funny is the word that I might choose."   
"Not funny." John corrected again, shaking his head before burying it inside of his hands.   
"_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes..." _Sherlock started. "_I understand that you occupy a profession of infidelity, one which might make the proper gentleman blush in shame. However I admit that you have erupted feelings within myself that I had not thought possible, especially considering how unholy our union might be. I don't have much money, yet what I have can be yours if you would do me the honor of your company and discretion. I know Mr. Trevor may not approve, yet I had thought it over for a long while, and decided that I would rather be killed by his hand, rather than miss this opportunity to be with you. Maybe this house has poisoned my sense of judgement, however it would seem as though your beauty has been enough to bring about my own madness. Please don't confront me on this; it'll be hard to look you in the eyes if your answer is no. If you accept my offer, keep this letter, and if you decline slide it back under my door this afternoon. Don't let Mr. Trevor see it. If it's not arrived before dinner, I'll expect you tonight." _Sherlock shuttered, his voice stalling now just before the signature. "Signed John Watson." He finished finally. John fell back upon the bed with a groan of agony, scratching about his cheeks as if that might keep them from blushing up in his shame.   
"I'd like to think that's my ancestor's name, and nothing more." John said finally. Sherlock nodded, staying quiet and looking over the letter once more, so as if to decide whether it was true or not. He didn't seem terribly enthused about the whole thing, intrigued perhaps, yet most certainly uncomfortable. John remembered back to when he praised their friendship being built so far from romance, and here was the final proof that John housed deep desires, having been carried along now throughout the centuries.   
"It um...well I do admit that I don't remember you ever using such romantic language. Yet I cannot deny that it appears to be your handwriting, if not in some sort of quill or calligraphy pen." Sherlock muttered in a very small voice.   
"They're not my words." John insisted.   
"Not your current ones." Sherlock corrected. Finally John sat up, knowing that his face had now turned ghostly pale. He looked to Sherlock, who was standing very awkwardly, with that letter in his hand and that golden ring on his finger. Never had a man looked any more conflicted, confused, or beautiful. Never before had John been overcome with both shame and relief, for while it would seem as though his past self had betrayed him, he had also made John's job of admittance all the more simple. Surely he had to say nothing, now it would just be assumed.   
"Well...just as you have changed, so have I." John said finally. "I'm a married man, committed."   
"Yes, I know." Sherlock agreed. "You're a good husband."   
"I am." John agreed. "That letter...well you can burn it if you like. I do not want to give anymore thought to my past."   
"Our past." Sherlock reminded him. John nodded, his stomach twisting anxiously telling him again and again that he should just vomit so as to avoid the conclusion his brain was forming.   
"Yes." John agreed. "Well it would seem, since we had found that letter in your desk..."   
"It would seem as though I kept it." Sherlock finished finally, his voice dropping down an octave fearfully.   
"That you did." John agreed. He didn't know if this was an exhilarating discovery or rather a disturbing one. He didn't know if he should rejoice about his past self's accomplishments, or rather be painfully jealous of that pleasure. For a century ago, so far past John's current memory, his past self had achieved the impossible. His past self had found himself with Sherlock Holmes, in the most intimate way imaginable. He had been with him...yes! That brief image, back when Sherlock's face had been foreign. A ghost, lying in his bed...draped in nothing but that black robe that stretched not to his knees. Had that been the state Sherlock arrived in? A century ago had John lay down with that ghost, that ghost in the flesh, and let his hand slide underneath that thin fabric? Had he found his lips so close to Sherlock's, breathing anxiously along his skin in his eagerness, alight with this same fire, the same one which was burning in his chest right now? He had settled his mouth against Sherlock's neck, and felt that man's long fingers pulling away his tie, jacket, and belt? Fallen into his embrace, and felt it finally as their skin touched, and their worlds collided? Lit with an oil lamp, on silken sheets, their cries stiffened with the worry of being overheard? John felt himself beginning to sweat, just now deciding it was time to look away from Sherlock Holmes, deciding that it might be very incriminating if he let his thoughts run wild, and his body therefore react in its excitement. No, he could not allow this eagerness to manifest. He had to let Sherlock know that his passion had been left in that century, even if it was just as alive, just as reincarnated, as were the two of them. Standing here now in such a thick, awkward silence of knowingness. Knowing now that while today they were friends, one married and one a virgin, once they had been something so much more. These bodies, now so foreign and uncomfortable...well they had been together at one point in time. One point in this big, confusing loop of time, caught together in a never ending ring.   
"Well we know...we know a couple of things from this letter then." Sherlock muttered. "A Mr. Trevor, he must be our mystery man. And if it was him on that billiard table with me, then it must be the man you were so worried about."   
"Why must you label this so directly? He wasn't on a table with _you, _he was with the past you. And no, _I _wasn't worried about him, my past self was." John grumbled.   
"Don't you sound just like an American." Sherlock chuckled. "Denying your past, just because you're ashamed of it."   
"I'm not ashamed of anything!" John denied.   
"Oh no? Aren't just ashamed that you had been so desperate, so as to call on me in such a way? Not ashamed that at one point your pure little soul descended to my filthy level?" Sherlock challenged.   
"Stop that Sherlock, you know that's not true." John insisted.   
"You seemed to think it was the other night." Sherlock pointed out with a sneer.   
"I don't want to argue." John interjected quickly. "We get nowhere when we argue."   
"Well, you seem to like to argue more than you like to face the facts, it would seem." Sherlock insisted, stuffing the letter into its envelope and stowing it in his own coat pocket. John wanted to speak against that, for it was rather rude if he kept it all to himself when it belonged to the past, yet all the same John had the photograph. It would seem as though they were desperate to keep a hold of the other's possessions, some of those deep rooted, provocative things that might remind them of the crazy lives they had lived before. Now they both houses those little memories, those sexual souvenirs in a way. Perhaps they were both battling demons, that demon that manifested as the little voice in the back of your head. Perhaps Sherlock, despite his pride and mannerisms, felt the need to read such a letter in some late hour of the night. Perhaps imagining it to have just arrived, so as to give him that much needed kick of adrenaline.   
"Maybe I don't entirely like the facts." John admitted finally.   
"Well, just as most history, this isn't going to change no matter how much we ignore it. It's our job now, to stay on task. We've come to find the mystery man, and now we've been offered a Mr. Trevor." Sherlock pointed out.   
"That doesn't help though, does it? I can't imagine how many Mr. Trevor's there are out there in the world." John pointed out with a little frown.   
"Surely there must be more documents on this house? Newspapers, reports? What about the official condemn notice? Or death records, birth certificates...well there has to be something more than this structure!" Sherlock insisted.   
"We could go to the Town Hall, if you think we've found all we can here." John suggested with a shrug.   
"Yes, yes I think that's wise. Or the library, for old newspapers." Sherlock added.   
"Oh come on, this isn't some horror movie. No one keeps old newspapers for that long." John scoffed, rolling his eyes in annoyance and getting up to his feet rather sharply.   
"Yes well, let's hope you're wrong." Sherlock muttered, following John down the trapdoor as they both wished that their preoccupation with the new search might distract them from their latest discoveries. Oh but it was no use, even if they didn't discuss it. John could tell himself that the Town Hall was more exhilarating than his past affair with Sherlock, yet as much as he wanted to think about all the questions he was going to ask Mrs. Hudson he could only imagine just more and more detail of the night they shared. All the more infuriating was the question of whether such images had simply been conjured from his mind or if they were being offered from the House now that the truth had gotten out. Perhaps that could only be answered by asking Sherlock how he saw the whole thing in his head, and if their pictures matched. Yet that would only be asking too much, for if John had to sit here in the car and listen to Sherlock list off the things he saw them doing in his head...well let's just say it wasn't very likely that those same things wouldn't play out in the moments following. All the same, Sherlock hadn't had any experiences like that yet. He didn't know what to expect, perhaps he had no images at all. Perhaps he shuttered a bit uncomfortably, yet could not imagine any farther than just kissing. Oh wouldn't it be ghastly if John was the one who had to explain it all to him? Well no, these days it was hard to avoid any movies without some explicit context. And even if Sherlock did know just how to be intimate, well surely it was driving him mad? Surely it was making him all the more curious, all the more anxious? If he was so set on the idea of soulmates, well perhaps he was beginning to wonder if he had found his after all. Supposedly that answer would come with the existence of Victor Trevor. If the man was not alive today then it would be only too obvious that John was meant to be with Sherlock. If he was alive, well then that would make things all the more complicated? It would put this apparent pattern back into play, a live triangle that had stood the tests of time. Perhaps that's why the house brought them back in the first place! Perhaps it didn't approve of the ending they had given themselves, perhaps it thought Sherlock was destined for the other. They sat in what might have been the most uncomfortable silence John had ever experienced, for he knew that just as soon as Sherlock's eyes turned to the window and glassed over that he was lost now in the very same thoughts. He was considering it, pondering it, and wondering now what it might all mean. What the significance was, behind his previous affair with John, and his current state of companion. The drive to the Town Hall only took about ten minutes, yet it felt more like ten days when finally John pulled into the parking lot. His heart had been beating so loudly, yet he had insisted on keeping his breathing under control and so he had been basically suffocating himself as he drove. He felt as though the only way to supply himself oxygen was through large gasps, and of course Sherlock might suspect something was up if he just began gasping behind the wheel. And so as soon as John jumped out of the car (which was only a couple of seconds after he put it in park) he took a great big gulp of air, stretching out his legs and waiting now for Sherlock to get situated. The boy emerged from the car looking quite nervous, looking up at John before nodding and walking inside as properly as he could manage. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson was sitting at the desk, for she had just addressed Sherlock before she saw John come in behind him. Her business face melted away as a genuine smile appeared on her face, and she looked straight past Sherlock as if he no longer concerned her. 

"Oh Mr. Watson! So lovely to see you again! How's the house?" she asked excitedly.   
"Well that's why we're here. We've been digging around in its history, but we haven't gotten far. Figured you might have something filed away for it?" John presumed.   
"Oh I'm not sure, we don't keep things labeled by houses." She muttered. "Although I can check for building permits and whatnot, if that's helpful?"   
"Anything." John agreed. "We were thinking death certificates too?"   
"For whom, the old owners?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, spinning slightly in her swivel chair behind all of the snow globes that had been laden on the desk before her.   
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check under John Watson. My ancestor." John added quickly.   
"Yes alright. Give me a moment, you gentleman can sit down and have a cookie if you'd like." She said with a grin, gesturing to the little waiting room that had been set up next to her desk. It was made up of a single couch and a coffee table, one that seemed to have every issue of gossip magazines since the Town Hall had first been established. The mounds of magazines were topped with a little pink tray filed with sugar cookies, equally ancient things by the looks of them.   
"Oh well, thank you." Sherlock said with a little smile, going over to plop down on the couch as if his legs really couldn't support him any longer. John looked over a bit hesitantly, noticing now just how small that couch was, more of a loveseat really.   
"I think I'll just stand." He decided finally, to which Mrs. Hudson gave a little chuckle of approval before getting to her feet and disappearing.   
"I can move over, if you really want to sit." Sherlock offered, squishing himself up against the armrest of the coach and offering John a whole separate cushion.   
"No, no it's not you." John insisted. "It's just my legs, you know. Well after that car ride I'd rather stretch them out."   
"It wasn't even ten minutes." Sherlock pointed out.   
"Oh I think it was just about ten." John debated, shaking out his legs a bit obnoxiously so as to make it look like he was stretching them. In reality, he almost certainly looked like a fool.   
"Don't make this weird, John." Sherlock begged.   
"Nothing's weird. I'm not making anything weird, I'm just...well I'm just living, you know? Just going with the flow, I'm not making anything weird." John insisted, although as he spoke his throat got quite tight, almost as if it too was begging him to shut up. Sherlock sighed heavily, as if he saw straight through that.   
"That letter doesn't define either of us. I know that...well I know it's ancient history. It wasn't you, wasn't me. _We _together never did anything along those lines. It was just; well it was just our past selves. Nothing they did means anything." Sherlock insisted. John nodded, for really what was he supposed to do? Hopefully Sherlock couldn't tell that he was housing his own fantasies in his head, hopefully Sherlock was too optimistic in the nature of men to realize that all the while Sherlock defended their past selves John was instead envying them. It wasn't weird because it happened; it was weird because he wanted it to happen again.   
"Alright then. You're right." John agreed. "I will sit down then, I will." And so he moved over to the couch, trying to make a point somehow by sitting not against the armrest, but directly in the middle of the available cushion. Just close enough now to squish his leg up against Sherlock's, and to have their shoulders brush. John began to seethe with embarrassment, for this was the point he was trying to make not to Sherlock, but to himself as well. He needed to prove that he could be close to him, while all the while proving to himself that he could be close without losing whatever ounce of self-control he had. John felt like there should be some sort of driving force behind his deprivation, something a bit more noble than just shame. And yet for whatever reason he didn't make a move just because, quite like his past self, he would be embarrassed if he got rejected. Never did a thought of his marriage pop into his head, or what an affair with Sherlock might do to his growing family. No, he just thought of his own shame. What sort of rotten person was he, then, to think only of himself not once but twice in such a relationship? And it wasn't as if some poor excuse of destiny would be enough to stifle Mary's anger, should she ever find out. John really needed to reevaluate his life here, or rather the combination of both of his lives. He needed to measure his losses, should he ever get what he wanted most in the world...  
  



	15. Entangled In The Centuries

"Does this mean we're technically ex's then?" Sherlock muttered quietly.   
"Depends how we left it off last time. I mean, you never know who gave you that ring." John pointed out. Sherlock nodded, examining the thing on his finger with something of a frown.   
"I feel as if it was from this Mr. Trevor. It was who you were afraid of, so I can only imagine I was in something of a dedicated relationship with him." Sherlock guessed.   
"Well, maybe that letter changed things." John offered.   
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "This is all so peculiar...it still almost feels like it's some sort of everlasting practical joke."   
"No, certainly not that. Doesn't explain the house, the screaming, the dreams." John pointed out.   
"I know. It was just wishful thinking, that's all." Sherlock admitted quietly. "No one's this cruel."   
"It's not...well it's not cruel, is it?" John insisted quietly.   
"I think it might be. Making us feel special, as if we mean something in this world. Or at least meant enough to be brought back. Introduced us to the idea of destiny, only to rip it away again, and curse us to the mortality of the common man." Sherlock muttered. John blinked, not having expected a small philosophical lesson from Sherlock so abruptly. He didn't really know how to respond to such a thing, and so he looked a bit anxiously towards the door where Mrs. Hudson had disappeared through, hoping her reappearance might interrupt his answer. Unfortunately she stayed missing, and the room as just as quiet as ever.   
"Yes. I do suppose that would be cruel." John agreed finally.   
"You haven't thought yourself anymore special, since this all began?" Sherlock wondered quietly.   
"I feel it's more of a curse, than anything." John admitted with a quick shrug, lunging now for a sugar cookie so as to interrupt this conversation and give himself something else to think about.   
"I like the idea of not being finished. It makes me fear death much less." Sherlock admitted.   
"You don't think we'll have to do it again? That doesn't scare you, the idea of an eternal loop, never resting? Just chasing each other in circles, under the authority of that house, for the rest of existence?" John insisted a bit fearfully.   
"Well no, not really." Sherlock murmured, shuffling his feet against the floor in a guilty sort of way.   
"Why not?" John asked immediately. Sherlock sighed, bringing his eyes to meet John's for the first time since that letter had been discovered. And John wanted to look away, he wanted so badly, with every muscle in his whole body, to just escape from this gaze! From that gaze like a magnet, making him want to lean closer and closer...yet he was unable to! He had to stare; he had to wait for that response.   
"I guess because I know that no matter what, I'll never be alone. That somehow you'll find me." Sherlock admitted finally, in such a soft voice that in any other situation John would have had to kiss him. If ever there was a more romantic line, John had to yet to find it. And as his face paled he found that he could only open his mouth to do one thing, for his words would betray him in the end. And so he merely shoved that cookie into his mouth, as much as he could to silence himself, a whole cheek full of the most disgusting, stale cookie he had ever eaten before. Sherlock's eyes widened, yet he didn't get the chance to say anything against such an action, for just as soon as John nearly choked himself with cookie Mrs. Hudson decided to reemerge, giving a little holler of success that only Sherlock could respond too, for John had evidently bitten off far more than he could chew.   
"Documents, boys!" she exclaimed excitedly. "And it seems as though there was indeed a Mr. John Watson, died at the house."   
"Wonderful, thank you." Sherlock said excitedly, getting to his feet and collecting the papers from Mrs. Hudson. John followed, however he was trailing behind so as to swallow that dry cookie and wipe the crumbs from his lips.   
"So my ancestor did die there." John muttered a bit stoically.   
"Yes, it would appear so." Mrs. Hudson agreed, handing the document over to John with something of a regretful sigh. Maybe she thought it was a sensitive subject, but then again John had to have known his long lost ancestor was dead? Obviously anyone who had the word "great" in their name must be a loss that wasn't too painful to accept.   
"And there were two other death certificates, written for the same day. I thought maybe you'd like to see them as well. It looks as though they were found in the same spots, though it doesn't say what was the cause of death." Mrs. Hudson said a bit quietly.   
"Two others?" Sherlock clarified, looking at John a bit eagerly. Already they knew that one of the names was very likely familiar.   
"Yes, says here there was a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and a Mr. Victor Trevor. All three deaths on the same day, in the same house." Mrs. Hudson muttered. "Little bit funny, don't you think? I wish they gave more description."   
"Victor Trevor." Sherlock breathed, now taking to twisting that ring along his finger once more, as if the name was ever too familiar for him.   
"You think it was murder?" John wondered, looking over the other two death certificates just to make sure the woman wasn't missing any obvious facts. But just as she promised there was no obvious cause to be found, just an old warrant with Sherlock's and Mr. Trevor's names typed across with a small typewriter.   
"Oh I don't know, that's something for a historian I'm afraid." Mrs. Hudson said with a little frown.   
"There's one that could tell us then? Someone who knows about the house?" Sherlock asked eagerly.   
"I don't think so. No one's taken an interest in that house for as long as it's been condemned. Those documents were probably in the same cabinet they were first placed in, all those years ago." Mrs. Hudson admitted grimly. John sighed in some defeat, although he knew that they might hit a dead end here in the town hall, with withered old Mrs. Hudson. Yet they did have something, the name they had come to retrieve. They now knew at least who their mystery man was, the name to fit the picture that Sherlock had so graciously drawn. His competition, if not his murderer...Mr. Victor Trevor. 

It was probably one of the fanciest evenings John had ever spent, even if the food presented on such fancy plates was the world's greasiest takeout pizza. The chandelier was lit (or rather the light bulbs were turned on, they couldn't reach all the way up to get the candles) and the china was passed around. Their bubbly soda was served in crystalline glasses, as tall as John's eye level, and there was a candelabra burning right next to the pizza box and breadsticks. It really was a luxurious evening, made even more pleasant by John's equally luxurious company. The only downside of Sherlock's presence was of course his preferred topic of conversation, for as wonderful as this moment was, he didn't seem to want to stay in it long. Sherlock preferred leaning over the table on his elbows, staring at the flickering candles and getting lost in the thought. 

"Where do you think he is now?" Sherlock asked quietly, blinking for a moment before turning his glance back to where John was sitting. Neither of them dared to sit at the head of the table, for even though John's name was on the deed he knew that he didn't really own this house. He felt almost as though the house owned itself, and no matter how empty that chair appeared to be, it was always somehow occupied.   
"Victor? Oh I don't know, who knows if he got reincarnated as well?" John said with a little shrug. Sherlock simply chuckled, though John couldn't see what was so funny about that. In fact, if this boy had such an obsession with this Victor character, he couldn't see why his loss would be considered a joke.   
"It's just crazy that you use those words so carelessly now. Reincarnation...like it's no big deal at all." Sherlock said with a little chuckle.   
"Well I mean, I suppose it's not as monumental as it was before." John agreed with a shrug. Sherlock nodded, folding up his napkin daintily and setting it aside his plate.   
"Was it ever as monumental for us as it should've been? Was it ever as life changing as it would have been for an average person?" Sherlock questioned quietly.   
"I think...well I think it did surprise me." John managed a bit nervously. Yet now that Sherlock brought it up, John tried to remember the moment when it all came together. He tried and failed to remember the time his brain split in two, trying to comprehend something that he had thought to be impossible. And yet he couldn't remember the revelation, he merely remembered the suggestion that leaked into reality. He merely remembered that moment when he nodded his head along to Sherlock's suggestion, and began to adopt it as gospel.   
"Perhaps we knew all along." Sherlock suggested finally.   
"No, I never...well who knows, Sherlock? We're still just grasping at straws. We accepted this theory because even as ridiculous as it is, well it's the only thing that seems to make sense. All science, all rational aside, it's easier to believe in reincarnation than it is to believe in coincidence. Especially this many coincidences, with names, and genetics, and interactions, and memories." John muttered.   
"I feel as though I always knew. Somewhere deep down, I had a very vague understanding that I was special." Sherlock muttered.   
"That's called narcissism, Sherlock, nothing extraordinary there." John warned with a little chuckle.   
"Oh stop that, it's not what I mean! I knew that I was just living a life, and you know how people talk about life as if it's an abrupt thing, precious and meaningful...well I always just felt that deep down that was all just talk. It didn't apply to me; somehow I was able to determine that everything happening was merely, well just transport. It was just another life, just another go at it. In some ways that made me feel special, not too scared of messing up. Then again, it also made me sad, because I knew that whatever I did wouldn't be permanent, it wasn't the purpose of my life. I knew I'd find the purpose when it came to me." Sherlock admitted.   
"When you say it like that it makes me feel foolish for chasing down my own happy ending." John admitted quietly.   
"Well you did, you did get a happy ending. Or rather you would've...who knows what's in store for all of us now?" Sherlock wondered, looking a little bit ashamed for having put such a negative spin on married life. Obviously he felt as though he had just degraded the idea of a happy marriage and family, as if it was overrated to a degree. Oh Sherlock could stutter all he wanted, surely he wasn't wrong! John knew deep down that there was something empty in his life, even if he had checked all the boxes that might make a man happy and successful. He had all of that, a wife, a child, a job, yet no purpose. He knew that there was something else coming, deep down he knew that all of this was leading to something, something much like a conclusion.   
"All of this stuff about destiny though, well it gets me thinking. It makes me wonder if Mary was ever supposed to happen, and Rosie...well what's going to happen to them if I'm destined for here, with you? What happens if Victor appears and we go back to the way things were, if we all live in this house and tear each other's throats out?" John muttered apprehensively.   
"You know it could never go back to the way it was." Sherlock whispered, looking just a little bit uncomfortable. Of course the same idea popped into their heads, that accursed letter! That was a rejection, the first of many undoubtedly, a rejection to something that wasn't even an offer!   
"Well I know that we can't go on living like that, we're not heathens. But I wonder what the house has in store for us. If Victor's out there somewhere then we can be certain that there's a purpose to it all. There's an unanswered question, or an unfulfilled destiny. But if he's not, well I can't think of a reason we're back together again. Unless, well unless we're some sort of soulmates." John muttered with a nervous little croak, his throat forcing out words as his brain produced them, spitting out romantic garbage just for the sake of continuing his sentences. Sherlock's eyes widened before he finally let his gaze drop back to his plate, now littered with the unwanted crusts of pizza long gone.   
"Or maybe we're wrong about everything." Sherlock repeated once more, choosing now to ignore John's little comment and move on with their conversation. John nodded, leaning back in his chair and feeling a bit foolish. He realized once again just how big this dining room was, and how alone he and Sherlock really were. How it was just the two of them, sat on either side of a candelabra, on a calm and cloudless night. How they were sitting in this house, this house that fed them madness like a disease, and how they could still sit still. Perhaps it was just a nod to John's self-control, or perhaps Sherlock's lack of interest. Either way, there was something in play here, keeping them apart. Perhaps that force was just doubt, or shame, or guilt. All the same, as John looked across the entire house, knowing that they were alone and destined to stay that way, well it seemed almost silly that they might not allow themselves to venture a little closer. 

"I don't like to be wrong about anything, much less everything." John insisted. "Even if we're not reincarnated, I intend to live under that impression just to avoid having to declare myself mistaken."   
"And you call me narcissistic." Sherlock chuckled.   
"Well, there's a difference between narcissism and stubbornness." John corrected, sipping now at his cola and wincing as all the little carbonated bubbles popped around his nose. Sherlock sighed, going back to his elbows and staring once more at the candles.   
"We're going to find Victor, then?" he presumed.   
"We're going to try." John agreed. "We can look him up later, I'm sure if he now lives half as extravagantly as he did before it'll be simply to find him."   
"You actually think we can just Google him, our century old companion?" Sherlock asked with a doubtful little laugh.   
"Do you have a better suggestion?" John wondered. Sherlock shook his head, for obviously he couldn't come up with something any better.   
"Well perhaps he's just around in town somewhere. I mean, it's a miracle the two of us met how we did, and if he's positioned just as close then we might have a chance of just bumping into him." Sherlock suggested.   
"It would be one thing if I was born and raised here, but I'm American. I only came here to work at the college; I mean who knows how far away Victor could be? And if he hadn't been pulled here yet, perhaps he'll never be. Perhaps it's up to us." John pointed out.   
"You don't think he's in America too?" Sherlock wondered with a hint of excitement in his voice. John groaned, shaking his head without much enthusiasm.   
"God, I hope not. I don't want to go back there ever again. I've had it with that entire country." He complained.   
"What's so bad about America?" Sherlock wondered curiously.   
"Not necessarily the country as a whole, just a few people in particular that ruined that entire continent for me. My family was a nightmare." John muttered, rolling his eyes and settling his chin own on his fingers in reminiscence.   
"Dare I ask how so?" Sherlock wondered. John sighed heavily, thinking back now to just how rough his life had been as a kid. Well no one would've known it, really, for it wasn't like he had come from some trailer park in the middle of the Virginia's.   
"Oh it's just my father, he was an impossible man. Unreasonable, abusive, a drunkard most times. And my mother hated me, she hated me from the moment I was born and I really can't say why. My sister ran away at the age of thirteen, and I had suffer there until I could finally just get out. Went to college, paid for it myself, and moved over here just as soon as I could find a spot for myself." John grumbled. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, letting his head hang in regret as he listened to John's tragic backstory.   
"I'm sorry to hear that." he muttered carefully, for what else could anyone say in response to that?   
"That's why I find it difficult...I find it difficult to speculate that my life means nothing. Because this life that I've made for myself, anyone would want it! Anyone would want such a transformation, to go from nothing to something spectacular. It's hard to tell myself there's something missing, but I suppose I always knew there was." John admitted quietly.   
"It was the house." Sherlock guessed.   
"And you." John said once more. "Of course it was you. If my soul really did live here before, well then surely there's a part of it that still can't differentiate between the centuries. Surely it's been waiting a long time to see you again."   
"Watch yourself, Professor." Sherlock warned after a moment's pause, although he sounded more regretful than hostile. "You're a married man, and you're drawing dangerously close to flirtation."   
"I'm not flirting." John corrected hastily, shaking his head in regret. "I'm saying that like it or not, we've got a past. And like it or not, you've got a past with Victor Trevor. We've all gotten tangled up in this big web, and it's hard for me to imagine there's much space for anyone else."   
"Our pasts shouldn't define us. We're our own people, we're free to live these lives and we're free to change them to our desires. There's no obligation for any of our past to repeat itself, there's no reason not to get married, or to get a master's degree, or to go and live a life away from this place. I'm all for being special, but I'll be damned if I'm not free." Sherlock growled, and with that he got to his feet and started his way from the dining room, leaving John to sit at the table in some confusion, trying to decide if he had said something wrong, or if Sherlock was even angry at all. Of course John was still yet to figure out what to do when Sherlock got mad, and so he finished one more slice of pizza before getting to his feet as well and wandering about the house to try to find his companion.


	16. Happiness Is All That Matters

It wasn't too difficult to find Sherlock, for he had placed himself once more on his favorite couch in the sitting room, opposite of the empty fireplace. John shivered, for there was an obvious chill in the air, yet Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he curled into a little ball.   
"I think I might stay here tonight." Sherlock decided quietly.   
"You haven't got a car, Sherlock, you'll be stranded." John reminded him. Sherlock sighed heavily, extending his feet out towards the other end of the couch and giving a little groan of annoyance.   
"Oh, debt really is crippling in times like this." He grumbled in annoyance, beginning to drape his limbs off of the other end of the couch, seemingly with the intention of getting back to his feet.   
"I'll stay with you." John said immediately, feeling the need to prevent Sherlock anymore hassle, anymore inconveniences for the night. "So long as I can get this fire going, I'll sleep in that armchair again, it wasn't too bad."   
"I really couldn't make you do that. Mary will be worried." Sherlock pointed out.   
"Oh she'll understand. I'll just tell her that I'm spending the night at the house because I need to do some stuff in the morning. She'll understand." John insisted, getting his phone from his pocket even before he searched for any fuel from the fire. He knew of course that he'd be willing to sleep in the cold, he'd be willing to just about anything to extend his time with Sherlock. Perhaps it wasn't just Sherlock that was drawing him in; maybe it was something more than him. Maybe it was this house, tightening its grip on them both. Holding them hostage with its suggestions turned whims, making itself all the more comfortable so that it could house its everlasting occupants even longer within itself.   
"John don't let this house get in the way of your marriage." Sherlock warned.   
"She's my wife, not my burden." John defended with something of a snap, already holding the phone to his ear. It was a very shot conversation once Mary picked up, for in the background he could hear those telltale shrieks of Rosie. Oh he was very glad that the yelling would stop just as soon as he hung up the phone. Mary didn't seem too thrilled about the idea, yet all the while she didn't offer up much of a debate anyway. Her voice was quick and stern, as if with every word of agreement she was cursing her idiot husband, telling him no with her tone yet agreeing in words all the same. Well tonight John was just going to ignore her underlying meaning, and pretend that he couldn't read between the lines. Tonight he wanted to just stay here, to relax and not worry about his family for a little while longer. For as Sherlock said before, they've got a destiny here, and nowhere else. In some ways this house was all that mattered, Mary and Rosie were simply two side characters in this elaborate story, this story which encompassed so much more than a happy suburban family. When John hung up the phone he didn't say anything, he merely went to the fireplace to find that there was a nice stack of firewood stacked up around the corner. He wasn't entirely sure how long it had been there, if not only for a few minutes. Perhaps the house had summoned the fuel he had asked for, in an attempt to keep him inside the walls for the night. Well whatever this house's plan, if there even was a conspiracy at all, it was certainly working.   
"Firewood." John announced with a smile, holding up a log in one hand and a little box of matches in the other. The matches were visibly old, they came in a tiny little carton and it was brown and worn with age. Yet it had been sitting alongside of the wood just where he knew it would be, just where he needed it to be.   
"Convenient." Sherlock commented quietly. There was some apprehension in Sherlock's voice, almost as if he was worried that John had intentions of this night, intentions that were not shared. Well of course that would be of the romantic nature, considering they had only just discovered their interesting history earlier this afternoon. Sherlock might be worried that John intended on using that to his own advantage, perhaps he was apprehensive that this evening might turn into something more awkward for the both of them. And yet he could rest assured, John didn't intend to try anything tonight. He was getting just as weary as Sherlock; the day's adventures were starting to weigh heavily on him, and his eyelids were falling with every spark that he attempted to strike over top of the logs.   
"Indeed." John agreed, smiling now that a flame had begun to spread through the ancient wood, burning through quite nicely and finally offering up a comfortable heat. With such a simple flame this cold, barren sitting room became something much more like a home. The fire was shimmering, bouncing flickering beams of light off of the walls and creating friendly shadows. There was warmth, there was crackling, and furthermore there was the calm, peaceful sigh of Sherlock Holmes as he drew his knees back to his chest, snuggling now in the warmth that was being offered.   
"Quite the homemaker you are." Sherlock commented quietly, his eyelids drooping peacefully.   
"Oh yes, well I was a boy scout back in America." John admitted.   
"A boy scout? Going about selling cookies and whatnot?" Sherlock asked with a laugh.   
"No, not cookies. That's the girl's job." John scoffed.   
"What did you sell then, pellet guns?" Sherlock presumed with a chuckle.   
"Popcorn." John corrected. Sherlock burst out into a fit of giggles, as if he really couldn't imagine John going about and selling large bags of popcorn. "And it was good popcorn too, don't get me wrong. Cheddar popcorn, it always sold the fastest."   
"That is so outrageously unlike you." Sherlock decided.   
"Oh come on, I was a fantastic boy scout! Would've been an eagle scout, had my dad not pulled me out of it." John growled, waving the poker in his hands rather threateningly, as if his dad was standing somewhere within striking distance. Oh how he would live to just smack this iron thing against that man's hideous, balding head!   
"Why'd he pull you out?" Sherlock wondered curiously. John sighed heavily, shaking his head before dropping the poker back on the rack and going to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the couch Sherlock was lying on and stretching his feet out towards the warmth of the flames.   
"Oh, well he noticed that I liked it, you know? And we couldn't have that. Not even for the honor of getting all the way to the top. No, he'd sacrifice any high honor just to ensure that I was miserable." John groaned, clenching his fists against the carpet and staring into the now roaring fire. He felt a burst of anger bubble up inside of his chest, an anger that he had not felt for years, yet one which was so startlingly familiar all the same.   
"You can let that all go, John. Let it all go. You're happy now, are you not?" Sherlock asked in that calm voice, a soft voice that might have deceived John into believing it meant something more.   
"I'm happy." John agreed quietly, nodding his head and leaning it back against the cushion, back enough so that he could feel the indentation of where Sherlock's weight was distributed. He could feel that boy getting closer with every ounce of pressure he applied.   
"Then that's all that matters, is it not John? Just happiness." Sherlock whispered, his voice beginning to sound sleepy, his words becoming slurred as his eyes began to droop shut. John nodded his head in reply, knowing now that if he would have asked a question he would get no response. Sherlock had fallen to sleep; he could hear it in his breathing, in the rhythms and in the soft drumming of his heartbeat. John smiled softly, thinking once more on the concept of happiness, and just how much his life had changed since then. Since he had been trapped up in his room, seething with anger he didn't understand. Perhaps there was something inside of him all the way back then, something that knew he wasn't intended for that life. Perhaps all of that anger didn't just come from his father, or his mother, but instead from his past life, and from this house. Half of it was understanding he didn't belong there, and the other half was missing the essential parts of his life. Missing Sherlock Holmes. And yes, happiness did matter in the end. Happiness mattered; it was the end goal despite any destinies, reincarnations, or paths which one is cursed to follow. John was supposed to happy, that was the end of it, and he felt as though he had achieved just that. He let his fists unclench against the rug, he let that age old anger seep from his muscles and for the first time in a long while he felt himself relax, properly. He felt himself sink deeper into that house, devote yet another piece of himself to its walls, and praise it once more for having found him a home. A true home, somewhere he belonged, somewhere he had been before. He thanked it for the friendship it had supplied him with, for that boy who slept so peacefully behind him. And for a moment John realized that he had never felt so complete, so whole in his entire life. Not his wedding day, not Rosie's birth...nothing had given him such a warm feeling inside than did this moment right now. He didn't have to be loved; he didn't have to be accepted. It was the lack of the cage, that thing people had been building around him all of these years. His father, then his wife...John felt perhaps that tonight was the night he found the key. Tonight was the night he let himself out of the constraints of what was expected of him, and ventured now out into the world. Out into the realms of his own life, so as to find the happiness that all men were promised, one way or another. 

John woke to the darkness, the darkness which was interrupted only by the small, smoldering logs in the fire. The red embers were all that remained, smoldering smokeless inside of the hearth. John sighed heavily, shivering powerfully and deciding that he ought to put some more logs onto the fire. The house was still and silent, for its ghosts had to sleep as well, and yet John was much too afraid to check his watch. He didn't like any confirmation that it was too late in the night; he didn't like the ominous feelings of loneliness that came along with such early morning hours. John was just about to get up when he noticed an arm dangling next to him, a pale arm that could only belong to one man, swinging off of the couch as he slept. John smiled quietly; appreciating now the untarnished skin that glowed so innocently by the last red light of the glowing embers. The effortlessly beautiful skin, gleaming and tempting, hanging so close to his face that it would only be too easy to lean and brush his cheek against the dangling fingertips. John sighed heavily, looking up now to Sherlock's face where it was smashed against the cushion, his eyes closed and his lips parted. Yet he still looked dashing, perhaps one of the most beautiful creatures on the whole of the planet, even when he was still asleep in such a state. Well surely the only thing more beautiful than Sherlock when he was asleep was when Sherlock when he was awake. All the same, the asleep Sherlock was so much easier to appreciate, and to investigate. Sherlock would never tolerate so much staring, a boy that was so self-conscious about his own beauty, a boy who would not allow himself to anyone before he was sure that person was someone special. Well what made John so insignificant? Who was Sherlock waiting for, if not for his true soulmate? John felt as though he had some rights to Sherlock, even if the boy would not accept it. He knew that they had a complicated and entangled history; he knew that in some point in time there was a version of Sherlock Holmes that saw John as an opportunity, not merely an inconvenience. He knew that there was a moment when Sherlock's eyes sparkled just as eagerly, he knew there was a moment when that boy would follow him to the ends of the earth, perhaps even all the way up to his bedroom. And yet this world was different, this world was much more stubborn than the rest. This world only permitted John to stare at Sherlock when he was asleep, and appreciate him only by the skin that was exposed from his dangling arm. There was no situation in this world in which John could be Sherlock's, at least not right now while he was married and Sherlock was so pure. Especially not when there was the promise of Victor Trevor, looming just over the horizon. No, Sherlock would not look twice in John's direction when he knew there was something much more promising ahead. John really was nothing in that boy's eyes, nothing when compared to the man he believed to be his one and only soulmate. Oh if only Sherlock could realize the world was more complicated than that. If only he knew that their pasts were intertwined together, not separately, and not singularly? They were trapped in a web, not merely an entanglement, and to deny the strings which were wrapped so tightly would be foolish of them both. Yet what could John do, what could he only do? He couldn't lean forward to kiss that hand which was dangling; he couldn't brush the curls behind Sherlock's ear and whisper softly into his ear. He couldn't climb up onto that couch and hold Sherlock's body close to his own, not in this lifetime at least. John's only option, therefore, was to rise to his feet and retrieve logs. To walk throughout the darkness in this lonely hour, when all of the world slept except those who were hopelessly in love. 

**_Entry Seven: _**_I don't know if it pains me or not, to have to admit this. Perhaps it is more acceptable on paper, rather than word of mouth. Perhaps I can accept it better myself, if I saw it in my own handwriting rather than in my own mind. Yet there has been something nagging at me, that accursed vision of Sherlock Holmes writhing there with Victor Trevor on the billiard table! Something about it that hasn't been able to leave my mind, simply because...well I suppose simply because I have become jealous. Oh what a horrible thing to admit, my own desire, my own unholy wishes! Goodness, what I thought was love before seems to now have a completely different definition! It seems as though I have given myself over without a second thought, I have allowed myself to be distracted by his beauty, and by his availability. I have decided then, to write a letter. It is nothing too poetic, merely an invitation. I think it might be foolish to send it, in fact I wrote it at first without the intention of sending it. And yet with every ache of my heart I yearn to just slip it under his door, I just want an answer, I just want to know if he'll accept me or not. Well...perhaps I do want more than that. Perhaps I long for his presence more than anything else in the world. I have never been a romantic man, yet there have been a lot of things which have changed within me, just as soon as I entered under this roof. There has been a lot of things inside of me which have completely turned themselves around, my morals, my independence, my romantic preferences. I am a captured man, whether there are any shackles or not. This house keeps me, it has placed Sherlock Holmes within its walls with the singular intent to keep me here, to keep me wanting more. My own madness feeds it, with every thought of him this house grows stronger. It wants me to abandon what little I have to cling to, my pride, my innocence. It wants me to degrade down to the last bit of humanity I have left, and then let that go as well. I hate to admit that it's working. Perhaps if I knew Sherlock Holmes in any other setting this would have never happened, yet inside of this house I know that if there's something I want, I know that it's within my power to reach it. I know that there are forces much more powerful than myself, waiting to unite us. And so yes, I think I will give him this letter. I think I will take that leap, and land on the other side unscathed all the same. I feel that it's much preferable to live a life of shame, yet still with the memory of Sherlock Holmes's presence, rather than live a life of regret, and never know him behind that smile, or behind those clothes. Perhaps I will never forgive myself if I let him slip through my fingers now, this perfect man, this man which might just be my undoing. It will be worth it, whatever happens. So long as he does not say no. _

When Monday came John couldn't be happier to get out of his house. It wasn't as though he didn't like to be there, for it was always lovely to bounce his daughter on his knee or read her bedtime stories while her little eyes were already shut. However it was Mary, that woman who was lingering so horribly close to him, her eyes following him if she could not do it herself. Well it was annoying, she was hanging over him like a weight, and beginning to ask all of these interesting questions that he couldn't really answer without revealing his interesting past. He didn't want her anywhere near that house, nor did he want her to come within eyeshot of Sherlock Holmes any longer. Both of those beings were John's own, his property, the things of his past that he did not want to share with things of his present. He told himself that he was being secretive for Mary's own good; he told himself that he was doing the right thing by ensuring she didn't feel any lesser. For she would know immediately that she was unimportant, she would know immediately that she was nothing to John, not even his true soulmate. Merely a woman who would get him from one stage of his life to the other, knowing full well that she would be left behind once his true destiny began. John didn't want Mary to have to live with that, and so he decided that it was better for her to guess, rather than know for sure that she was about to be abandoned. And let her speculate, let her assume the worst! For surely the worst was handled much easier when there was no firm confirmation. That was what she was worried about, an affair, certainly. Well of course John's night spent at the house was all the reason in the world to worry about a love affair, and yet it really was the worst kind. For John had handed his heart over to Sherlock, whether or not he realized it his entire life was dedicated to that man, his love had left this household and had followed him to the house. It was waiting there for Sherlock to return, for their lives to fall back together as they had been all those years ago. His love was waiting to be received, surely by the man who had received it before. And yet it would be the worst sort of pain, for a wife to discover that her husband was struggling now with unrequited love. For it was much easier to stomach the idea that a man had been swept off of his feet by some beautiful woman, someone who would smother him in kisses and seduce him effortlessly. It was much more difficult to fathom that John's heart was gone, even without a willing recipient! That he could love someone so emotionally, without even the psychical aspect to go along with it! For John was in love with Sherlock in every aspect of the word, and the more he pondered it the more he discovered just how invested he was in that man! Oh, and just like the idea of reincarnation, all of these things that might have been completely unconceivable had just fallen into his life as if he had expecting them! The idea of another life, another love, well he had just accepted them before he even acknowledged them! Truly all of this was meant to happen, all of this really must have been just...destiny. And so when Monday came, John was ready. He was feeling the loss of Sherlock, even if it had been just for one day. There was something of a withdrawal, the pain coming purely from the anticipation of seeing him again. Perhaps it was madness; or rather it was merely a strong dependency. Sherlock may now be the beacon of his happiness, of his hope, and of his love. Perhaps John was just beginning to miss having his own heart in his chest, and he wanted to see it as soon as he possibly can. Well, that opportunity arrived rather well. 


	17. Conferences Really Cause Conflict

Sherlock arrived a little bit late, at three o'clock just as soon as John's office hours began, yet Sherlock was the first one into his room, almost as if he had been waiting outside on the couches, as if he was worried he wouldn't be admitted outside of the usual time.   
"John, check this out!" Sherlock said excitedly, walking in a great stride and placing a laptop on John's desk, right on top of the papers he had set himself to grading. John smiled at him, wishing that he had been offered something more of an introduction. However he focused now on the laptop, deciding that if Sherlock deemed it unnecessary to exchange introductions than it was best not to argue.   
"What am I looking at?" John wondered a bit apprehensively, straining his eyes to see what he assumed was some sort of art blog. It had no actual paintings on it, merely aesthetic pictures of paint brushes with an artist's bio at the top.   
"I've found him, Victor Trevor." Sherlock announced proudly, standing up to his highest height and beaming. John sighed, noticing now that the artist's name was undoubtedly the name they had seen on that death certificate. He tried to fight off his disappointment, for he had known all along that it would only be a matter of time until this man walked into their lives.   
"You don't know this is really him. I mean, there might be thousands of people with that name." John warned, trying to grasp at any sort of hope he could find. Yet he knew that Sherlock was smart enough to account for that, he understood that Sherlock would not be this excited if he hadn't been certain.   
"Look at his picture then, scroll down." Sherlock insisted. John sighed, pounding a bit on the down arrow (to which Sherlock winced) and just now seeing a large portrait of a man standing up near what looked to be a large, French style building. Only half of his face was visible, the other half was cloaked in shadow, yet it was undeniably him. A modern day Victor Trevor, half of his face matching almost perfectly with the drawing that Sherlock had done. John nodded his head, pushing the laptop away before he had to look at anything more. He really did hate to have to see this, Victor's arrival into his life cut like a dagger and he wasn't even here yet! Certainly when Victor made his grand entrance everything that John had with Sherlock would be lost, ruined with this horrible man! This man who Sherlock would undoubtedly prefer.   
"Well that's pretty neat." Was all John could manage, scrolling down now to an address printed in blue font down at the bottom. "Paris? He lives in Paris?"   
"Yes, that's sort of the only downside." Sherlock agreed with a shrug.   
"Why is it a downside?" John wondered.   
"Well, vacation days must be scarce. And I'm working on an experiment that's..."   
"You're not actually suggesting that we go to Paris?" John exclaimed, falling back into his chair with his mouth hanging askew in surprise. Sherlock looked a bit taken aback, as if he couldn't understand what he had said wrong.   
"Well of course we have to go to Paris." He said a bit quietly. "How else are we to be sure that it's him?"   
"I've got great news, Sherlock. They've invented the telephone!" John exclaimed.   
"You know as well as I that it's not as simple as that." Sherlock scoffed. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and folding his hands a bit apprehensively on his desk. He stared at the picture some more, a beautifully photographed image, with that man looking long, lean, and handsome. That man that might be so tempting.   
"I can't go to Paris." John muttered, this time his voice straining hesitantly. 

"What on earth are you getting your suitcase for?" Mary exclaimed, ducking out of the way as John reemerged from the basement, lugging up his great big suitcase they had bought for air travel. Ever since Rosie had been born they had been unable to go on vacations for more than a weekend, and so this suitcase still had the tags on it.   
"Paris, I guess." John grumbled.   
"_Paris?" _Mary exclaimed. "John Watson you cannot abandon me like this!"   
"I'm not trying to abandon you! God, I'm not trying to do anything. They want me for a bloody conference, some sort of science conference in Paris, where I have to meet with all sorts of people I don't want to meet with, and talk about things that I already know." John lied quickly. Well of course the story was fabricated but the anger was not. Oh if only he was going to a conference, how much easier would his life be! But no, he was going to collect the very man that would weigh down his entire life, and fill his eager heart with lead. Mary hesitated, yet all the while she followed John up to their bedroom, for obviously she had more questions to ask.   
"Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" she questioned.   
"Because I thought I could weasel my way out of it. I'm the youngest professor they've got in that department; I thought they'd send the chair! Only now did they tell me that I'm to be flying out on Wednesday." John grumbled.   
"Wednesday? John that's three days away, what am I supposed to do with Rosie?" Mary insisted.   
"Well I suppose you'll have to manage. You can call your mother, have her help out. Besides, I'll be back on Friday at the latest." John suggested. Mary's voice faltered, and she crossed her arms across her chest with a frown appearing on her face.   
"You're not going to take me along?" she muttered quietly. John blinked, looking towards his wife as if she had just sprouted another head.   
"Why would I take you?" he asked, blinking to show his obvious confusion.   
"Oh nothing, it's just that usually when there's conferences abroad, people take their spouses. Make a vacation out of it. And Paris, the city of love...I thought you might have considered that." Mary murmured.   
"I'll be in meetings all day; certainly I can't take you now! Mary, over the summer we'll go somewhere excellent. We'll go to Paris; we'll go to Prague, wherever you want! But not now. Don't make me bring you across the channel just to ignore you the whole time!" John begged, taking one of his wife's hands and squeezing it gently to show his enthusiasm.   
"As if you don't ignore me here." Mary muttered, pulling her hand away and storming out of the bedroom in one of her little fits. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and deciding that if Mary wanted to be difficult then it was her own fault. Besides, there was no possible way she could be allowed to come get Victor. First of all, that would expose their operation, and John would have no choice but to confess everything! Secondly, Mary's presence would just spoil what time John had left with Sherlock before he felt that he had to hand him over. Oh John really did have a way of digging himself into a hole, didn't he? One that he would never be able to escape, no matter how hard he tried. For if he was trying to lie to Mary then she got mad at him for the little parts of the lie that he didn't account for! And if he was trying to be truthful to Sherlock, then Sherlock got mad at him for the things he couldn't control! And if he fell in love with Sherlock...then he couldn't say a word, lest he be crucified for it. John sighed heavily, deciding that he really best not argue with his wife right now. He had enough trouble with her as it was, and to add some more fuel to the fire would be unnecessary. She didn't deserve to hurt, especially for things that were completely out of John's control. It wasn't his fault that she couldn't tag along to the conference that didn't even exist. And so he went back to packing his things, throwing in a couple of shirts, some shoes, pants, and a dinner jacket just in case Victor decided to take them somewhere fancy. Truth be told, John wasn't expecting this to be a very large affair. He wasn't expecting this to take very long, just long enough for the two of them to drag Victor back to England with them, and introduce him to the house. Who knows, maybe he'll have already packed in anticipation. Maybe he was just waiting for the okay. John felt as though he would have a stroke of luck if Victor was hesitant, and considering his luck thus far, he decided that it was thoroughly impossible. If he wished for something to happen then certainly the opposite would occur, especially when his relationship with Sherlock was involved. John then moved to his work bag, knowing of course that even in Paris he would have to keep up with grading. He was dumping out some important files when out came that picture frame, tumbling out on top of his clothes so as to display Sherlock once more. This ancient photograph, taken undoubtedly to torture everyone who saw it in the future, anyone who might be allowed to imagine Sherlock as they knew him in that same state. John sighed heavily, staring deep into those eyes, those eyes which depicted emotion he may never see in life. Only on this tattered picture would John be able to receive such a gaze from Sherlock Holmes, only on this tattered picture would he see any amount of Sherlock that was not supposed to be made public. John sighed heavily, deciding that he had no choice but to throw that picture among his clothes in his bag. Besides, if Victor needed any proof then that picture would surely serve as enough. There was no denying that ancient photograph depicted Sherlock Holmes, the man that lived now. 

Wednesday morning came in something of a hassle, considering John had to wake up much earlier than he would've for any other weekday. Sherlock had managed to book the earliest flight he could find, and so it was at four o'clock that John had to roll out of bed and silence his vibrating phone.   
"John come on then!" Mary growled, pushing at her husband in retaliation before rolling over once more with the intention of going back to sleep. John scowled at her through the darkness, yet he knew that he had no choice but to get to his feet and dressed as quickly as possible. Sherlock was due to be waiting for him at five, at the little apartment in a little row of houses that John only vaguely memorized. Of course Sherlock didn't think to give an address, for he is so rarely considerate in remembering his own knowledge was not universal. John had a sad bowl of cereal, staring at a wall instead of the usual morning paper. Then again, the news didn't necessarily concern him this morning, considering he had his own personal life changing events happening. He couldn't care about the stock market or foreign relations; he had to instead focus on what he was going to do if Victor proved to live up to all of Sherlock's expectations. Oh but who was he kidding, of course Victor would not prove to be a disappointment! If he was enough to sweep Sherlock off of his feet in the past, well he would a Parisian artist by now! That fact alone, with the accent and the aesthetic, would certainly be able to get Sherlock's heart beating annoyingly fast. And so there were two plans of attack, one which would undoubtedly take John down as well. The first was to ignore it, ignore all of this and disregard his feelings so as to pretend not to be hurt. If the inevitable was such, well then he had no choice but to nod his head and accept it. He had a wife, a child, and responsibilities he didn't have when he lived there before. He was not allowed to love Sherlock Holmes in this life time, even if it was his destiny. The second plan of attack would be ruinous for him, and undoubtedly a bit awkward for Sherlock. The second plan would be to get to Sherlock before Victor does, and this was something which would have to be enacted before they got to Victor at all. This left John not even twenty four hours to confess his love and to make Sherlock confess back, in such a way which might ensure he didn't give Victor a second thought when it came to romance. Oh, John knew that such a plan would go horribly wrong! Even if the best case scenario occurred he would still be facing the moral degradation of an affair. He wouldn't be able to look his wife in the eyes; he wouldn't be able to smile at his daughter, knowing that he had betrayed them both! Love wasn't as important as he wanted it to be, not in this world now. Who cared if loved Sherlock, who cared if he was destined to be with him from centuries before? Their destinies this time just didn't add up, John had held unknowingly held himself back in an attempt to move forward with his life! And he knew that Mary wasn't worth it, in the end he understood that he might have had a happier life had he been more rational.   
"Well come on then, when does your plane leave?" Mary exclaimed, dragging down John's large suitcase with one hand while clutching onto the banister with the other, as if worried the weight of the thing might drag her down with it if she didn't hold on.   
"It's leaving at six, but we need to get to the airport before then." John said obviously. Mary stopped, throwing the suitcase down the last two stairs with a large bang. This immediately interrupted Rosie, for just as soon as the racket ceased her crying made up for the sudden silence.   
"_We?" _Mary demanded. John stopped, realizing of course that he hadn't yet mentioned that he would not be traveling alone. Oh well, there would be no denying it now.   
"Had I not told you before? I'm to take Sherlock along, he's got an interest with one of the professors from Harvard, and wanted to talk to him about..."   
"You're taking Sherlock?" Mary exclaimed, storming over to John yet stopping short. She looked as if she had the potential to get violent, for her face had glowed bright red and her lips pursed into an unmistakably thin line. Yet she halted, seeming unwilling to strike her husband or to at least smack his bowl away.   
"I don't see why that's an issue." John mumbled.   
"Oh no, not an issue at all. It's just that it seems that you're spending a lot of time with this Sherlock fellow, a suspicious amount of time." Mary growled.   
"What's so suspicious about research? My goodness Mary, I don't know if you have properly grasped the idea of students and professors working together. This isn't elementary school; we're allowed to interact with our students without needing to get a background check." John growled.   
"PRIMARY SCHOOL!" Mary corrected in a roar, turning around and giving John's suitcase one last kick of rage. "Go have fun in Paris, you neglecting b*stard!" and with that she ran up the stairs, her bare feet padding along the wood all the way up to Rosie's room, so as to silence her constant crying. John sighed heavily, yet decided that he would rather give Mary the last word than defend a story he was making up along the way. Surely he couldn't purse the subject, especially not when he was already on thin ice. It wouldn't be long until Mary put two and two together, it wouldn't be long until she noticed that look in John's eyes, the look of distaste, hidden now behind a very thin veil of appreciation he was able to salvage from the very bottom of his heart. It was difficult now, to look at her with a smile. And so he dumped the rest of his cereal into the trash and hoisted his suitcase back onto its wheels, double checking that he had packed everything before grabbing his coat and staring a bit mournfully up the stairs. He wanted to say goodbye to Rosie, for the child hadn't yet done anything to wrong him. Yet in the end he decided that she wouldn't know the difference either way, and considering Mary was undoubtedly holding her it wasn't worth the proximity. And so John yelled out his final farewell, loading up his car and starting over in the direction of Sherlock's apartment, or rather where it was supposed to be. Thankfully Sherlock had the forewarning to have left a nice big suitcase on the front porch, for that was the only clue that he lived there, apart from the giant pride flag that was waving in the front window. The house was a little bit run down, as were most apartments around here. The paint was peeling, the roof could use a couple more shingles, and the mailbox was hanging at such an angle that the mail very well fall out as soon as the wind blew the door open. John pulled the car to a stop, turning off the engine and getting out of the car just in time for the front door to open. Sherlock came stumbling out, pulling on his coat and looking quite exasperated. The sun had yet to rise, yet the porch was illuminated with a couple of weak lightbulbs, making the entire house glow orange against the dark, starry dawn.   
"I said I'm leaving, did you not understand that by the big suitcase I've been packing all week?" Sherlock growled, obviously yelling to someone inside the house.   
"Well for how long? You know I don't like to be here alone!" whined another unfamiliar voice. Sherlock slammed the screen door shut, only to have it opened once more by a tall, bland looking boy who John had never seen before. He seemed to be about Sherlock's age, with greying hair and a long intellectual looking face. He was wearing nothing but pajama pants, with his hair disrupted and a pair of glasses perched on his nose.   
"Oh are yet ever _really _alone, Reggie?" Sherlock challenged with a hiss, grabbing his suitcase and struggling to drag it off of the porch.   
"Professor Watson?" Reggie clarified, squinting into the darkness, to which John managed a nervous little wave. "Sherlock, you're leaving with _Professor?" _  
"It's a conference." John said quickly.   
"Is this who you've been running around with lately? My goodness, well I thought you had a suitor but I'd never have imagined that..."   
"Reggie, just shut up!" Sherlock demanded. "Get my other bags."   
"Other bags?" John coughed, looking at the size of Sherlock's suitcase and wondering how he hadn't already packed the whole of his possessions inside.   
"Well yes, we get two carry ons, don't we? I need my laptop, and my um, my bag of personal possessions." Sherlock muttered a bit hesitantly. John squinted a bit suspiciously, wondering what could possibly be counted as personal possessions, however he decided to just leave it be. Sherlock could have his secrets.   
"Whatever, throw them in the backseat. I'll get that suitcase in the trunk." John decided with a sigh. Reggie reappeared with a laptop case, coupled with a small bag that almost looked like a makeup bag. John sighed heavily, casting the two bags a bit of a bothered look before grabbing the suitcase from the second stair (Sherlock had paused in the middle of dragging it) and lugging it across the sidewalk into the trunk.   
"And where is it that you're going then?" Reggie wondered, shutting the door behind him and leaning a bit heavily on the door frame.   
"Nowhere that concerns you." Sherlock snapped.   
"Eloping then?" Reggie presumed.   
"_Not _eloping." Sherlock corrected.   
"Hm, thought not. Then you'd have taken all of your things, and that giant poster is still hanging in your bedroom. You know, the one with all the soldiers on it?" Reggie said with a little snicker. John hesitated, looking over to Sherlock with something of a surprised glance. Reggie chuckled, and Sherlock ducked away just to give him a good slap on the arm.   
"I'll see you later, Reginald." Sherlock growled, bounding down the porch and throwing his two carry ons into the backseat. John finally wrenched that huge suitcase into the tiny trunk, slamming the door down on it and starting then to the driver's seat.   
"Going without a goodbye kiss?" Reggie challenged. This time Sherlock ignored him, shaking his head and getting a bit moodily into the passenger seat.   
"You know Professor, he's a virgin. Won't be much good." Reggie warned.   
"I'm not responding to that." John said finally, and with that he got into the driver's seat and shut the door with a snap, finally blocking out Reggie's pestering and appreciating just a quick moment of silence. 


End file.
